Inescapable
by Valkea Susi
Summary: A look at the disadvantageous side of a HG/SS pairing.
1. Chapter 1

All Harry Potter characters and themes are, of course, JK Rowling's. Don't sue me; I have very little of monetary value other than my computer, which you'll have to pry from my cold, dead hands—that's a promise.  
  
WARNING: This story does not end "happily ever after," per se; the hand of Fate steps in and things get switched around. For all you HG/SS shippers, you may like it, you just never know. I'm merely trying to show the other side of the coin, not make fun of you.  
  
RATING: The pairing is rather controversial (for obvious reasons) and so I am rating this R in anticipation of that and some language. Don't worry about anything else; I'm lousy at writing love stories. However, feel free to inform me if you feel the rating needs to be altered in any way.  
  
And finally, have mercy; it's my first solo effort.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter One  
  
Hermione Granger was not one to daydream. True, everyone has their momentary lapses when the brain seems incapable of coherent thought and some higher power clouds the intellectual process. But given her history, she was not taken to fantasizing quite easily, and she found herself confused when, one morning, her brain simply wouldn't work.  
  
She was tempted to blame Parvati Patil, who had awoken with unusual gusto that morning and thrown open the drapes of the girls' dormitory to reveal the blinding sunlight when Hermione was deep in sleep. Parvati had then proceeded, most annoyingly, to jump on every single bed and wake the sleeping female inhabitant with a squeal of joy.  
  
"Wake up!" she shrieked when she reached Hermione's bed. Hermione's eyelids fluttered open and her mind reached a state of reluctant consciousness. She moaned, the light searing her eyes, and tried to bury herself under the covers as a mole tunnels into soft earth. But Parvati would have none of it; she yanked away the covers and nearly dragged Hermione by her nightgown out of her bed.  
  
"Hogsmeade! First weekend! It's almost time to go—come on!" Parvati was wild with anticipation of her first official "date," with Dean Thomas; he'd asked her, quite confidently, in fact, in the common room the second week of the year. The much-awaited first Saturday Hogsmeade visit had finally arrived, and on a beautiful, clear September day late in the month. Indian summer was ripe in the air and the sky was cloudless and blue. Everything seemed to be going Parvati's way.  
  
"I don't care," Hermione mumbled, pulling away from Parvati and reaching vainly for the covers of her bed. She'd been studying late the previous evening, Friday or no, and felt like the living dead.  
  
"You have to come," Parvati wheedled, pulling robes out of Hermione's clothes chest that rested at the foot of her bed, and stuffing them into her arms. "You should get out more, you know. Ask someone on a date!" Her eyes were fairly gleaming and Hermione groaned inwardly at what she knew was coming next.  
  
"Yeah," Lavender piped in. "You should talk to boys more, Hermione. After all, you're seventeen!"  
  
"Yes, but just only, and I—"  
  
"And you can't possibly count Ron and Harry," Parvati said matter-of- factly. "They're just…them."  
  
"You noticed." Her sarcasm was lost on the other girls; they were confident that they'd reached womanhood with all the knowledge of the male gender they required, and had resolved to tutor Hermione in the facts of life. Hermione, for her part, dreaded each day's lesson and longed to dash from the dormitory and hide herself in the deepest, darkest corner of the dungeons.  
  
"It's going to happen, you know," Parvati told her in a motherly voice. "You can't avoid it forever."  
  
"Says who?" Hermione was partway out the door to take care of her morning toilette. "What if I choose to be more concerned with my grades?"  
  
"Doesn't matter. It's going to happen, and when it does, you'll get hit hard." Parvati gave her a grin Hermione could have sworn was sadistic. "You'll see."  
  
Hermione's only reply was an exaggerated roll of her eyes as she turned her back on her dorm-mates and left for the bathroom. They were only joking with her, after all; they couldn't possibly be serious about such a thing.  
  
* * *  
  
But that had only been an hour earlier, and now Hermione was doubting whether or not they were wrong. Their ideas had infested her brain and prevented her from any kind of rational, intellectual thought; she was paying little attention to what Harry and Ron said and more attention to them.  
  
They talked about Quidditch the entire walk down the road to Hogsmeade, and Hermione was characteristically silent on the subject. She did her best to study them out of the corner of her eye. Why should she be interested in boys? All they really did was…well, talk about Quidditch. Sure, Harry and Ron were attractive, but looks weren't everything. She knew she wouldn't be able to stand a relationship with either of them; she'd be bored to a state of tears in a matter of minutes.  
  
Parvati and Dean were leading the crowd with a superior swagger. Dean looked slightly embarrassed, for Parvati was gripping his hand tightly in her own smaller one and making sure to smile sweetly at him every thirty seconds or so. Hermione thought it was disgusting. Parvati, as much interest as she'd developed in boys earlier on, viewed that particular trip as her first genuine, true date, and Dean was in for a hell of a day. He couldn't get a word in edgewise with Parvati rambling on happily about one thing or another, but he sensed her enthusiasm to be with him, and paid her obligatory attention. Sweet of him.  
  
Hogsmeade had lost its original appeal to Hermione, but there was usually something to be gained by going into Zonko's; she couldn't imagine who spent their time coming up with the ideas for the products they carried. The Weasley twins could certainly give any professional inventors a run for their money, but they were unsure as of yet just what they were going to do. A few years out of Hogwarts already, and they had spent them helping Charlie Weasley with his work as opposed to pursuing their own individual occupations. Mrs. Weasley, Hermione knew, was deeply worried about her two eccentric sons and what would become of them.  
  
While Harry and Ron found various projectiles to launch at one another (usually ones with loud noises as a side-effect), Hermione tried to think of Monday's classes and whether or not she was fully prepared—homework finished, notes completed, etc. Only one problem presented itself—she couldn't think! Every time a thought about a certain class entered her mind, it was pushed away by something less significant; it was a beautiful day out, for one, perfect for a walk. And she was lonely. She wished Harry and Ron would include her in the discussion.  
  
Parvati and Dean walked by, and Parvati was careful to give Hermione a knowing little grin. Hermione returned it with an annoyed glare that she hoped would keep Parvati off her back the remainder of the day. It was enough that she'd been harassing her all year thus far, and now she'd temporarily demolished her thought process. If it was not up and fully functional by Monday, Hermione was going to make some real trouble for Parvati.  
  
"Hermione!"  
  
She looked over, surprised. Ron was standing a few feet to her right, flaming red hair blown sideways by Harry's last assault, looking at her with a quizzical expression on his face.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You feel all right?"  
  
Now it was her turn to look puzzled. She nodded. "Why shouldn't I?"  
  
"I don't know. You're just…different today. Daydreamy."  
  
"Daydreamy? I don't daydream." Her voice was harsh and final. Daydreaming was a dangerous state that prevented one from fully absorbing classroom material; it was not a practice she would allow herself to indulge in.  
  
"Well, you are today. I said your name three times."  
  
"I'm just tired." She pretended to stifle a yawn and tried to hide her concern. Was she daydreaming?  
  
"So are we going to get butterbeers, or what?" Harry interjected. Hermione nodded absently, and the two boys exchanged a look. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the expression that passed between them, but decided it was better not to say anything; that would only concern them more.  
  
The Three Broomsticks was unusually empty, and they comfortably seated themselves in a corner booth. It was not until a few minutes later that other customers began to file in. The three jumped considerably from shock when the door opened and Snape and Dumbledore entered. Dumbledore appeared to be his usual cheery self, though perhaps a little more lackluster than he'd been the year before; the times of Voldemort were trying ones, and nothing had come of efforts to thwart him. Snape had reached new levels of cruelty over the summer, and none of them wanted to so much as glance at him.  
  
The two men took a table a few to the right of theirs and Snape immediately initiated a quiet but intense conversation with Dumbledore, who was more interested in gossiping with Madam Rosmerta. Rosmerta flashed both men a dazzling smile, but Snape ignored her pointedly and waited impatiently for Dumbledore's attention. He refused to order anything and was beginning to look angry.  
  
Once again, Hermione found herself left out of Harry and Ron's conversation. She was positive now that no matter what direction her feelings for the boys might possibly take, nothing of a romantic nature could ever develop. At least, not with Harry; there was no other way to describe it but to say that he just "wasn't her type." There had been a time when she'd wondered if she might feel differently about Ron as they grew older, but as she listened to their irritating and immature conversation about Zonko's jokes, she decided that had merely been hormones.  
  
Meanwhile, the conversation between Snape and Dumbledore was becoming acutely interesting. Snape, she knew, had thrown himself with full force into the fight against Lord Voldemort, and was no doubt trying to discuss some aspect of the wizarding world's offensive tactics. Dumbledore, like every other normal Hogwarts inhabitant, faculty or alumni, merely wanted to enjoy the beautiful September day and talk about less depressing things. Snape was frustrated; Dumbledore looked compassionate.  
  
She found herself wondering, quite unexpectedly, just what his duties as a double agent really were. No doubt he put himself in obvious danger; years ago, she would never have given him credit for such a selfless character trait. She still didn't want to, but had begrudgingly accepted that Severus Snape might possibly—possibly—have some decent aspect to his personality. He just chose not to reveal it in the classroom.  
  
He glanced over at her only once, and the usual sneer appeared on his face when he noticed the "Dream Team" together as usual. Their eyes met briefly and she thought for a moment, a mere moment, that perhaps a more questioning look appeared on his face when he noticed her; but he looked away immediately and she pushed the thought from her mind. She had no reason to suspect that he liked her more than Harry or Ron, or that he was driven to notice her at all.  
  
* * *  
  
Once dinnertime rolled around and the school was seated customarily in the Great Hall, Hermione had reached the conclusion that her entire logical thought process was disabled completely. She could not concentrate at all whatsoever on schoolwork or preparing for quizzes; instead, she found her thoughts drifting again toward the weather, her loneliness, and other things of no significant bearing over her school life.  
  
The fact that she was lonely was not something she wore openly for others to read on her like a book. She had Harry and Ron, and they were enough to provide sufficient conversation and more than enough excitement, sometimes too much. But she pined secretly for a more intellectual companion, someone whom she could feel on par with academically. She had no competitors in her own grade, or indeed in the school at all. Only the teachers made worthy candidates, and none were about to step forward and offer to accept the position of her new "friend."  
  
Ginny Weasley had noticed her pain, she knew, and tried her best to provide Hermione with a feminine aspect of friendship. But even Ginny was now reaching the age where she thought more of boys than schoolwork, and she was not someone with whom Hermione could talk at length about a new book or a fascinating new potion. She was staring curiously at Hermione from across the table; no doubt wondering why she was off exploring in fantasy land, something she never did.  
  
"Hermione, are you all right?" The concerned tones in Ginny's voice ran deeper and truer than those in Ron's, and Hermione suddenly felt guilty. How did you explain to someone that a roommate's predictions about boys had completely shut down your cognitive process?  
  
"I'm fine, really. Just a little daydreamy," she added, using Ron's coined expression. Ginny nodded slowly, sipping her pumpkin juice, but did not lose interest. Hermione was unsure how to make the girl feel any better; she did not want her concerned for her sake, for short of providing a means for a brain transplant, there was nothing Ginny could do.  
  
"What are you thinking about?"  
  
"Boys." It passed through her lips before Hermione could catch herself. Ginny's eyes widened considerably past what Hermione would have thought humanly possible and she nearly choked on her drink.  
  
"What! Don't tell me you like boys now."  
  
"No, I don't. That's what I was trying to determine."  
  
"Why in the world don't you?" Ginny set down her fork and faced Hermione rather defiantly; even she couldn't understand her complete and utter lack of interest toward the opposite sex. "They're not all bad, you know."  
  
"I know," Hermione sighed, "and I never said they were. I just don't like them. They're not…mature enough."  
  
"You can't expect perfection," Ginny told her exasperatedly, sounding like an exhausted mother who had reiterated her point a few thousand times too many. "They're only boys. They'll get better when they're older."  
  
"That's the whole point!" Hermione exclaimed, realizing it suddenly. "Why should I like them now when they're going to get better? In fact, why does any girl like them now?"  
  
"They're still cute," Ginny pointed out, unable to keep her eyes from roving unintentionally toward Harry, who, as usual, had taken no notice of her.  
  
"Attractive physically, yes, I suppose. But to truly be attractive, you have to be more than…oh, hell, I hate the word 'cute'!" She spat it out distastefully. "Puppies are cute; why in the world would you use it to describe a human being?"  
  
"Because they're cute." Ginny was eyeing her unblinkingly. "That's what they are."  
  
"Men are not supposed to be cute," Hermione retorted. "Haven't you ever read—"  
  
"We're talking about boys," Ginny reminded her through a mouthful of vegetables, "not men. Men are different."  
  
"You're absolutely right," Hermione agreed, her appetite returning in full force when she noticed that the shepherd's pie was finally within her reach. "And all I have to do is stop thinking about it and accept that."  
  
Ginny giggled. "No problem," she said. "You wouldn't like a man anyway." She bent her head back to her plate and never noticed her friend's eyes flick, just for a moment, toward the teacher's table. Snape was speaking with McGonagall and did not notice her; but the same curious thoughts entered her mind again, and this time, she was unable to move them so easily. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Would appreciate reviews more than anything, even if you hate it—give me some constructive criticism! Trying to make a point with this, but I have to determine just where I'm going to take it first.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Two  
  
"Just don't think about it," Hermione whispered to herself. Those five words now comprised her mantra as she made her way down the steps toward the Potions classroom. What had started as a blossoming curiosity about the youngest male teacher in the school was now full-fledged wondering, and she couldn't quit thinking about it. She had no idea how she was going to react in the classroom situation and was trying unsuccessfully to secure her thoughts on something academic.  
  
She was the second person in the classroom; Neville sat nervously huddled in his seat, doing his best to appear invisible in the domain of his least favorite teacher. Snape, his back toward them, was writing the ingredients and directions for making that particular day's potion on the blackboard. Hermione allowed herself one glance in his direction and then forced her eyes to concentrate on the task of copying notes.  
  
Harry and Ron entered several minutes later, laughing quietly about something. Snape eyed them angrily and appeared to be about to make a comment, but stopped when the other students began to filter into the room. When the classroom had at last filled, he went about the daily, arduous task of searching for ridiculous reasons to deduct points from Gryffindor. He now prided himself in his undeniably great ability.  
  
"Miss Granger." Hermione was staring absently at the far wall of the classroom and was startled out of her reverie by his voice. "I would appreciate your full attention in my classroom. Five points from Gryffindor."  
  
That was quick, she thought wryly. Nice going. Just don't think about it.  
  
Snape proceeded to snap the day's directions, but Hermione wasn't fully listening; she had officially lost control over her brain and was noticing things about the classroom she had never been at liberty to discover before. Snape's desk, for example, was meticulously organized. It appeared, from where she was sitting, that what had once looked like random piles of corrected assignments were really stacks of papers organized by class hour and grade. She noticed file cabinets, partially hidden from view by the blackboard, in the front of the room. Numbers were written in tiny white labels on the front. Did he alphabetize things?  
  
"Hermione!" Neville was hissing at her out of the corner of his mouth. She looked up just in time to see Snape's eyes on her again; he looked distinctly angry this time.  
  
"Miss Granger, I'm losing my patience with your obviously blatant disinterest in my class. If you find yourself that bored, then perhaps you would rather make up the time in detention. Five points from Gryffindor and detention if I have to speak to you again."  
  
"Sorry, Professor," she spoke timidly, but he didn't acknowledge it.  
  
"Get started," he snapped. "Longbottom, copy down the instructions three times more to make certain you know what you're doing. I want to see your notes at the end of class."  
  
Neville reached a trembling hand into his bag for his quill and began to copy and recopy the blackboard of notes. Hermione went about the mechanical task of making the potion; she was by now accustomed to reading absently the directions on the board, mixing the ingredients with little or no thought, and producing a perfectly concocted whatever-it-was potion by the end of the class period. Double Potions gave her even more time, which she didn't need, and by the time she'd finished her brain was more than ready to begin wandering aimlessly once more.  
  
Snape was walking purposefully down the aisles of the classroom, examining every potion with a hawklike eye and never failing to make a hurtful criticism should the creator be a Gryffindor. Slytherins, even those with horrible grades and work ethic, always received silence and a slight nod, the best that any student could hope for in terms of a compliment from Professor Snape. Malfoy was the only one who'd ever received a verbal compliment, and remained undefeated.  
  
"Longbottom." Snape had paused over Neville's cauldron, and Neville sat right next to Hermione. She turned her attention quickly back to her own cauldron and stirred the potion, embarrassed. Had he seen her watching him?  
  
"Y-Yes, Professor?"  
  
"Have you finished with the notes, or are you joining Miss Granger in her daily reverie?"  
  
Neville was unable to speak, but snatched the notes off his desk with white knuckles and held them up timidly. Snape hardly glanced at them; he looked instead at the cauldron.  
  
"I see you've forgotten to add the witch hazel."  
  
"I—I don't have any, Professor, I forgot to buy some wh—"  
  
"I don't want excuses, Longbottom, only a decent potion, but apparently after seven years of education at Hogwarts you cannot yet produce even that. Even I regarded your skills more highly than this."  
  
Hermione was not sure she could stand much more of Snape's treatment of Neville. She reached into her bag, pulled out an extra portion of witch hazel, and held it in front of Neville wordlessly. He stared at it, wide- eyed, and then grasped it with sweaty palms and struggled to open the package. As Hermione glanced over to see Snape's reaction, their eyes met briefly.  
  
"Detention, Miss Granger. Here, at eight o'clock."  
  
She returned his stare but said nothing. Snape's eyes narrowed, and he gave her a suspicious look as he turned to finish his investigation of the class's progress. Neville was hyperventilating badly and appeared to be in an advanced state of cardiac arrest.  
  
"I'm sorry!" he whispered. "You shouldn't have done that, you knew better."  
  
"I know," she agreed, not bothering to keep her voice quiet, "but I don't care. The way he treats you is completely unfair and it's about time someone stood up to him anyway."  
  
Snape heard her comment, and turned abruptly. She expected a rebuke, but none came; instead, he merely glared at her. She glared back defiantly and waited for a more severe punishment, but he turned wordlessly and kept walking. She wasn't aware until she exhaled heavily that she'd been holding her breath. Why hadn't he said something?  
  
Neville was frantically going through the motions of completing his potion before the class ended, and Hermione, satisfied that hers was worthy of a perfect score, began to pack her things back into her bag neatly. She was nothing short of a control freak and her bag was a perfect example of the method to her madness; everything was placed exactly where it belonged and each and every object was within her quick and efficient reach. She misplaced nothing, nor did she ever have trouble obtaining her school supplies. Neville watched her jealously as his potion simmered.  
  
"You're so good at this class," he commented. "You do everything so good."  
  
"So well," she corrected automatically, and placed the cap on her inkwell and screwed it into place.  
  
"See? You even talk perfect."  
  
"Perfectly."  
  
"See!" he expostulated, throwing his hands up in frustration. She couldn't help but chuckle at the exasperated look on his face.  
  
"Just because Potions is not your strong point, that doesn't mean you shouldn't consider yourself a worthwhile student," she said gently, and watched with pleasure as he blushed.  
  
"Thanks, but you're just saying that to be nice."  
  
"No, I'm not. You're excellent at Herbology, you know that."  
  
"But I'm horrible at everything else," he reminded her despairingly, wrenching the cork from a vial of serum and adding it to the potion. The liquid flared abruptly and then darkened to a moss green; several more minutes and it would be finished, just in the nick of time, she knew.  
  
"It only takes one skill to make a career." He grinned at her wisdom and stirred his potion with more confidence. Feeling as though she'd accomplished something (in her brain-dead state, her own potion hardly counted) by making Neville's day a brighter one, Hermione realized that she was not dreading detention.  
  
In fact, she was rather excited.  
  
* * *  
  
Compulsion drove her to smooth down her hair in front of a mirror seconds before she had to leave to report to the Potions classroom for detention. Parvati eyed her from across the common room and placed a finger on her fashion magazine, folded the pages, and drank in Hermione's girlish actions. Hermione was not one to care about her appearance; obviously, if she did, she would do something daily about her hair.  
  
Not that her hair was all that bad anymore, Hermione decided, rather pleased with what she saw. Her hair had flattened out a bit, and did not stick out like it had years before. She'd learned to keep it under control better, as well; dampening her brush before she ran it through every morning minimized the static electricity that typically caused her hair to become bushy. It fell more softly now, and it was longer as well.  
  
"Where are you going?" Parvati asked, even though both knew perfectly well that Parvati was familiar with where Hermione was going.  
  
"Detention," she replied shortly, fastening the top button on her robes and pulling on her school shoes.  
  
"Do you have a date or something?" Parvati teased relentlessly. Hermione rolled her eyes as usual and faced Parvati reluctantly.  
  
"No, I don't have a date. I'm just making sure my hair won't be in my way, in the event that I may be dealing with potions ingredients." She could tell Parvati remained skeptical by the sly grin that crossed the other girl's face. Lavender, sitting in the corner, was now taking an interest in the conversation.  
  
"Maybe she's meeting someone," Lavender suggested with a meaningful glance in the direction of the boys' dormitory.  
  
Now Hermione was growing angry. She had to leave any second for detention, but if she deserted the conversation now, she'd only get flayed alive when she returned later. They would wait up for her, there was no doubt about that, and have plenty of new ammunition by that time.  
  
"Are you insinuating that I'm meeting Harry or Ron?"  
  
"We don't know. Are you?" Their evil smiles were identical and both had gleaming eyes and hungry looks.  
  
"I'm going to detention." Her dignified exit was interrupted when she tripped over her robes. She regretted the fact that she couldn't slam the portrait; it opened slowly, and shut slowly, giving her plenty of time to cringe at the laughter coming from within the common room.  
  
The hallways were eerily quiet as she made her way to the dungeon classroom. Peeves, who typically patrolled the corridors in the evenings looking for students to harass or snitch on, was absent that evening—or somewhere else in the castle. The sky was overcast and no moonlight from outside lent any light to the hallways, so she pulled out her wand and whispered, "Lumos." The Potions classroom was not much farther ahead.  
  
She paused for a few seconds outside the door. There was no sign of Snape, so if she was late, he wasn't waiting to snap at her when she arrived. Odd, but maybe she was on time. A remarkable thought, considering that Parvati and Lavender had gone on for minutes and still been nowhere near finished with her.  
  
She extinguished the light, pocketed her wand, and pushed open the door as quietly as possible. Professor Snape was not in the outer room, but she could see a light through the door to his office, so perhaps he was working. She wasn't sure whether or not she should wait in her usual desk or announce her arrival, so she decided to do the latter; no point in getting blamed for being late when she'd been on time.  
  
When she turned the doorknob to his office and pushed open the door, he looked up from his place behind a second desk. Unsure of what to do or say, she gave him a small smile and closed the door behind her, standing straight and clasping her hands behind her back, awaiting her sentence.  
  
"Good evening, Miss Granger." His voice, she noticed, was not nearly as loud as she was accustomed to in the din of the classroom, with students' voices and the clamor of glass vials to compete with. It was quieter now, and deeper; she jumped slightly.  
  
"Hello, Professor." She could have sworn a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he merely looked back down and finished correcting the paper at his hands. She fidgeted uncomfortably and looked around his office. Everything was perfectly organized, just as his desk in the outer room was, but the furniture was not as sparse. Bookshelves lined the walls with literally hundreds of books; she gasped slightly and began to peruse the titles, not noticing that he had finished and was watching her.  
  
"You are impressed with my literature collection, then?" His tone was still slightly insulting, but at least he hadn't spoken anything nasty to her. She only nodded and stood on her tiptoes to peer farther up. It was incredible; plenty of textbooks and reference books, but also traditional literature, much of it being of Muggle origin.  
  
"You read poetry?" She pointed at a line of books on the very top shelf of one bookshelf, which was filled with collections of poetry, mainly old English authors.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But sir, they're Muggle authors." He raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused at her surprise.  
  
"I'm aware of that, Miss Granger."  
  
"I thought you hated Muggles."  
  
Now it was his turn to jump slightly. "Why should you think that?" He placed his pen back on the desk and looked at her with a puzzled expression, not the least bit mean. She was puzzled as well; why had she thought that?  
  
"Well, I don't know, I thought all Slytherins did."  
  
Now he was smiling. "Does that mean that all Gryffindors are as foolish and rash as the Dream Team?"  
  
She shrugged. "Well, no, I suppose not. I'm sorry."  
  
"No need." He rose, cloak swishing behind him, and headed toward the outer classroom. "I believe it's time for you to begin your punishment."  
  
"Which is…?" She was shocked at her own daring; normally, she would have spoken as little as civility allowed her to get away with. Her voice was cool and confident, not cracking even the slightest.  
  
"Preparing a month's worth of Sleeping Potion for the infirmary." He looked at her pointedly. "It should not take you long. I imagine you're familiar with it."  
  
"Yes." She needed no recipe, for it was a simple and common potion, always fresh in her mind. She began to gather ingredients off the shelves he pointed toward, and dragged from the corner of the room the largest cauldron she could find. It was massive, ten times the size of her standard school-issue size two, and she had difficulty maneuvering it. Snape offered no help; he was rummaging through the file cabinets she'd noticed earlier and if he saw that she was struggling, he didn't acknowledge it.  
  
Having moved the cauldron to the center of the room, she forced herself to clear her mind of insignificant thoughts and concentrate on the task ahead of her. A month's worth surely could not be that much; Sleeping Potion was not often doled out in the infirmary, only to students who were too traumatized or in too much pain to possibly find sleep on their own. Even Harry, who spent a great deal of time in the infirmary, had only received it a few times.  
  
"I said a month's worth, Miss Granger, not a decade's." Snape gestured toward the gigantic cauldron and she sighed.  
  
"How much is a month's worth?"  
  
"Only a fraction of that. You may use the cauldron if you wish; just don't fill it. Perhaps an eighth of that would suffice."  
  
"All right." She cut her ingredients into eighths and began to add them carefully, hoping she didn't make any mistakes concocting the Sleeping Potion from memory. Snape looked openly for any sign of a paper or textbook containing the instructions, and she smiled with some satisfaction when he frowned.  
  
"You seem confident without a textbook," he remarked, not cordially but not spitefully, either.  
  
"I am." She could have sworn he chuckled, but it seemed such a ridiculous action coming from him that she dismissed it from her mind and proceeded with the potion. She doubted this was going to take her any longer than two hours, and was surprised that he would give someone of her skill ability such a simple—even easy—detention assignment.  
  
Half an hour passed uncomfortably. Hermione sat in silence on the floor and stirred her potion while Snape began to file away papers in the cabinets. Every so often, one or both of them would glance at the other, and several times their eyes met. He did not seem embarrassed, but she was, and would look down again immediately and nonchalantly. When the potion reached the point where it needed to simmer undisturbed, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for the snide remarks to begin.  
  
But they never came. Snape disappeared into his office and remained there until she'd finished.  
  
Odd. The liquid began to take on a sickly green tint, swirling in a circular motion from the center and spreading outward. When the boiling stopped and the entire potion looked like coagulated pea soup, she knew it was finished. Cleanup was relatively easy; just return the ingredients to the cupboards and wash off whatever else she'd held. When everything had been returned to its respective place, she was unsure what to do with the potion.  
  
Snape was once again correcting papers in his office; this time, she recognized the pile as being essays they had turned in several days earlier. The seventh-year class was currently studying Veritaserum, a difficult undertaking and an extremely dangerous potion. She burned to know what she had received on her essay, but decided that he would most likely not appreciate her asking.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
He looked up. "What?"  
  
"In what do you want me to put the potion? It's finished."  
  
He nodded, scribbled down one last comment, and rose, walking quickly past her. She could feel his cloak brush her shoulder and tried to shrink against the door. Hermione was only of average height for a woman, not tiny but not tall either, and his height was intimidating to her.  
  
Back inside the classroom, he pulled down several large flasks and handed them to her. She drained the potion carefully into each using a funnel and sieve to catch any floating debris or chunks of individual ingredients. Snape took them wordlessly when she'd finished, put labels on each, marked them, and set them in a box which sat on his desk.  
  
"I have something to say to you, Miss Granger," he informed her as he placed the box to the side, "and I want you to listen carefully."  
  
She was intrigued; her hand, clutching a scrub-brush, stopped moving inside the cauldron.  
  
"I don't know why you were so distracted today," he said quietly, standing above her now, "and I do not make it a habit of mine to pry into the private lives of my students. However, I'd suggest that you reconcile on your own time whatever is bothering you, because it would be a shame for your grade in this class to suffer as a result of whatever that may be."  
  
She could feel a giggle—a giggle, of all things, and in front of Professor Snape—starting within her stomach and demanding to be let out. What was he talking about? That was the closest he'd ever come to complimenting her; he was suggesting that her grade in his class was valuable.  
  
Even though she stopped the giggle, she had to submit to a grin. "Are you complimenting me, sir?"  
  
Snape looked taken aback. His black eyes grew wide and he seemed to be searching for words to knock such a ridiculous notion out of her brain. "Of course not."  
  
"But you said it would be a pity if my grade were to suffer. That implies you consider my grades valuable." The word stung him deeply; he hadn't realized he'd said that, or if he had, he hadn't expected her to gloat about it.  
  
"If I was complimenting you, Miss Granger, you would know it." He turned his back on her and crossed the room quickly to take refuge behind his desk.  
  
"I think you were, sir." She dropped the scrub-brush back in the cauldron and began to rinse it out with a bucket of warm water. Snape looked as though he would have liked to strangle her then and there; he clenched his fists and did his best to frighten her with his glare. It could not possibly work; she was enjoying herself now.  
  
"I was not complimenting you, Miss Granger."  
  
"Ouch," she said sarcastically, dragging the cauldron back into the corner. A rebuke was expected, but he was merely studying her with that cruel, scrutinizing look he wore more than any other.  
  
"Do you want me to dismiss you, Miss Granger, or would you prefer to spend the night here playing word games with me?" His voice held a tone of amusement. Was he enjoying this?  
  
She was; she would have preferred to stay. It was the closest she'd ever seen Professor Snape to actually teasing someone to be playful, not vengeful. Not only was it unbelievable and amazing, but he was surprisingly adept at it.  
  
"I'd like to be dismissed, sir." She stood, hands on her hips, and faced him. This time the giggle did escape, and he rolled his eyes.  
  
"Fine. You are dismissed."  
  
She scampered from the room and managed to shut the door before the giggle turned to laughter. What was that about? Her feet felt light as she made her way back to the Gryffindor common room. Peeves was once again absent, and she took her time. Things seemed to be going her way this evening: her detention had been simple; Parvati and Lavender would be asleep when she arrived; and unless she was grossly mistaken, Snape had reciprocated her affectionate teasing. Imagine!  
  
Snuggling beneath the covers was not quite the relief she had expected it would be; her mind was far too active (as it had been constantly, lately) for her to catch any minutes of sleep. She thought once again about her conversation with Ginny at the dinner table, and the difference between boys and men. Other than age, she truly believed now that it was an aspect of personality as well. Only a grown man could have made what Professor Snape had done look mature. That was a talent she didn't often see. 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: My apologies for the awkward turn the story is taking. I'm so insanely unnerved by the thought of a SS/HG relationship that it may take awhile for me to warm up to writing about it. I just can't see that working out…. But then again, that's the whole point in this thing!  
  
  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Three  
  
  
  
If she hadn't known better than to believe such a thing, Hermione could have sworn, come the next morning at breakfast, that Snape had smiled at her when she walked past the teachers standing just inside the doors. Her eyes grew wide for a moment and she tripped over her robes, just barely managing to retain her balance before she would have crashed to the floor. Professor McGonagall offered her a steadying hand and gave her a concerned look. Hermione fled the scene and refused to turn around to see Snape's reaction; if that hadn't made him smile, nothing would.  
  
She should have stopped her thoughts before they strayed too far, and she knew it; but curiosity kept them flowing, and before long, Hermione begrudgingly admitted that she was starting to like him. Oh, not as a crush, of course; that was impossible. No one could possibly love Professor Snape; it was unthinkable.  
  
Was it?  
  
She forced herself to concentrate on Ginny's conversation and her breakfast instead of on him. Mercifully, Ginny seemed to be too busy talking about Bill's upcoming marriage and his lovely new fiancé to notice that Hermione was beyond distracted; she was now fantasizing most of the day away.  
  
"They're not sure yet where they want the ceremony to be," Ginny was telling her excitedly, "but Mum's hoping they'll pick a summer date so we can have it at the Burrow. She promised she'd clean up the garden and do everything herself, maybe even hire a decorator! Wouldn't that be great?"  
  
"Wonderful," Hermione cried obligingly; the sarcasm was lost on Ginny. It wasn't that Hermione wasn't happy; she just had very little interest in Bill and his love life. She had never met the girl he was marrying (another English employee at Gringotts in Egypt), so she couldn't feel strongly one way or the other.  
  
"Ginny's making it sound better than it is," Ron told her with his mouth stuffed with sausages. "Mum'll ruin everything if she does it; they should stay in Egypt. I would."  
  
"No she won't!" Ginny exclaimed indignantly. "Mum's a wonderful cook, and besides, we could invite more people if it was at home."  
  
"Yeah, and we could afford it, you mean." Ron, as usual, had lost no time in mentioning that his family was far from affluent, and it was having a detrimental effect on their lives in some way, shape or form. Hermione felt a stab of pity for him; most likely, Bill and his wife-to-be would consent to having the marriage ceremony at home simply because they knew the Weasleys could never afford to attend en masse if it took place elsewhere.  
  
"It's not so bad," Hermione pointed out compassionately. "Your mum would do a great job, and if it was at home Harry and I could crash the party! Right, Harry?"  
  
"Damn right!" Harry grinned and speared another sausage with his fork. "You won't have any wedding dinner left over by the time I'm through with it!"  
  
Ginny blushed a deep red and looked down at her plate; her crush on Harry had escalated over the years to what, as far as Hermione could tell, was as close to true love as humanly possible. The mere sound of Harry's voice could send her into a state of deep embarrassment. Harry, eating his sausage and listening as Ron described Bill's wife-to-be, did not notice Ginny.  
  
They've both grown up, Hermione realized in surprise. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen in before. Harry and Ron, like any typical teenage boys, were growing inches every second and had voracious appetites. Ron was by now well at least six feet tall and Harry was only mere centimeters away. Ginny, like her mother and like Hermione herself, was not especially tall for a female. She and Harry together looked like a couple, and the thought struck Hermione deeply.  
  
And she herself? Had she grown? Not inch-wise, of course, but she'd noticed differences in herself; subtle, they seemed, but there nonetheless. She wished she could share in an objective view of herself and see how much more like a young woman she looked, but it was impossible.  
  
"And the best part"—Ginny had recovered from Harry's voice and regained her composure—"is that I get a new dress for the ceremony!" Hermione could tell Ginny was genuinely excited for the wedding and suffering from a particularly bad case of anticipation. She repressed a shudder; she hated dress clothes of any sort. Muggle clothing was her personal preference; even wizard's robes could grow rather uncomfortable after a few hours.  
  
"Only that means I have to look all fancy too," Ron grumbled; he and Harry had each polished off more than their fair share of sausages and were now fighting over what remained of Hermione and Ginny's.  
  
"Oh, but you'll look so cute," Hermione teased. "And if Harry goes and dresses up, he'll look just adorable!" The look on both boys' faces was murderous and Ginny was gasping for air between spasms of laughter.  
  
Hermione flashed them a grin and gathered up her things. "I'm going for a quick walk," she told them. "I think I need some fresh air. See you guys at lunch."  
  
"And don't come back!" Ron called after her as she left the table. Several people nearby laughed and the other House tables looked in surprise at the smile that crossed Hermione Granger's face. From their places at the teachers' table, where the conversation was traditionally boring, Professors Snape and McGonagall watched Hermione Granger leave the table with a smile larger than any they'd seen in years. McGonagall shrugged it off and turned back to her breakfast; Snape did not.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione placed her bag down on the balcony beside her and leaned against the stone ledge that kept one from tumbling to a gruesome death stories below; the air was fresh and crisp, a perfect autumn day, and Hermione found herself thinking nostalgically of the days before she'd started school when she'd spent hours outside playing in the sun. To be young again would be wonderful, she thought with a sigh; but then again, growing up had its advantages as well.  
  
Her mind considered its philosophical wanderings until she came across the startling prospect that she wished they had Potions class that day. Never in a billion years would she have expected that she would look forward to Potions. This was becoming dangerous.  
  
She remembered their first year at Hogwarts, new and idealistic, and the first time they'd seen Professor Snape. She could still remember the way he'd looked at Harry, with all the hatred of a true nemesis, as though he was Harry's lifelong enemy Lord Voldemort. Indeed, the two were probably perfectly familiar with each other; but as Lord Voldemort had been lying low for the past two years, embarrassed by his failure for the second time to destroy Harry Potter, Snape provided a threat just as formidable and all the closer to home.  
  
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, she thought wryly, and wondered if Harry knew the saying. She would have to tell him sometime; it described his life with remarkable accuracy.  
  
The voices within the Great Hall were dying down rapidly, so she gathered her bag and cloak and headed back into the castle. Her first class was Arithmancy, on the third floor, and she dreaded the thought of a class that involved so much thinking. Knowledge and its most efficient vessels—books—had once been her one and only love, but now she wasn't so sure. There was something that books simply couldn't provide her with anymore, and while she couldn't pinpoint just what that was, she wanted it, craved it. Maybe she needed to get out more.  
  
Hogsmeade weekend that Saturday, she thought absently; I should go again, just to get out and do something. Perhaps she was growing bored of the numbing schedules in her life and her mind wanted some spontaneity. Skipping class and exploring the woods, while it was what she wanted to do more than anything, was a bit too spontaneous for goody-goody Hermione. Or maybe it was the whole "goody-goody" thing that bothered her.  
  
Not anymore, she realized with satisfaction. She'd been given detention; that was a start.  
  
* * *  
  
Most of the students grabbed a quick and easy meal for lunch and spent the rest of the period wandering around in the sultry heat of the day; the sun was burning, hotter than some summer days, and not a single person wanted to remain inside the castle walls. Even the teachers had moved outside for a few minutes here and there; Dumbledore had developed the brilliant idea of a teacher "picnic" to escape the heat and was joined by Sprout and Flitwick, the only two who were game for his every idea, near the lake. He waved to Hermione where she sat in a patch of shade under a tree and she waved back. Dumbledore was always so friendly; he didn't deserve some of the ungrateful things students said concerning him.  
  
Harry and Ron exited the castle several minutes later and flopped down next to Hermione, panting. Ron was grumbling under his breath about the heavy school robes and Harry was doing his best to loosen his shirt without actually unbuttoning it.  
  
Draco and his cronies passed by them then, choosing a tree as far away as possible; most had already been taken, so they had little choice in the matter. Hermione didn't need to wonder how far they would have gone if they'd had a say in the decision.  
  
"Hey Weasley!"  
  
Ron lifted his head lazily from where he'd let it drop onto the soft grass and looked over in Malfoy's direction. Draco was grinning from ear to ear as he approached their resting place.  
  
"I hear your big brother's getting married," he hissed, voice dripping with malice. "Don't know how your father's going to afford it. I had a brilliant idea, though. Why not wear leaves to the wedding? Maybe you'll be able to afford some flowers then."  
  
Crabbe and Goyle laughed dully at the ringleader's comment, and Hermione groaned inwardly. How had Malfoy found out about Bill Weasley's engagement? Unless he'd heard the teachers talking about it…. It was common knowledge that Bill Weasley was one of Professor McGonagall's favorite ex-students, just as Charlie Weasley had been a favorite of Hagrid's and Madam Hooch's, for his talents with magical creatures and on the Quidditch field.  
  
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry snapped, grabbing his goblet of pumpkin juice and downing half of it in one single gulp. Harry had lost none of his violence in dealing with Draco's various attacks over the years, whereas Ron had grown considerably more tolerant. He did not even respond to Malfoy's bait, save for flashing Harry a thankful grin and lying down again, closing his eyes.  
  
"I would, Potter, but I'm far too interested now. Are you going to the ceremony?"  
  
"Why?" Hermione asked with feigned suspicion. "If you want a double ceremony, Malfoy, all you have to do is ask; Harry's very open-minded."  
  
Draco's face grew very red; Crabbe and Goyle, far too dense to understand her insult, exchanged confused looks and shrugged. While Draco sputtered and searched for a comeback, Hermione subsided into giggles and the two boys began rolling on the grass with laugher.  
  
"Good—one—'Mione—" Ron managed to gasp out. Harry, clutching at a stitch in his side and unable to articulate because he was laughing so hard, threw an affectionate arm around Hermione's shoulder, eyes dancing. Malfoy turned on his heel and departed, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering along behind.  
  
"Ohhh," Harry groaned, still doubled over with a hand on his chest.  
  
"That hurts, dammit!" Ron exclaimed, managing to prop himself up while still shaking from laughter. "Oh, Hermione, that was great."  
  
"Perfect timing," Harry added with a smile in her direction. "I wish Ginny could have heard that."  
  
"I wish Ginny could have heard you wish she was here," Hermione replied solemnly; it would have meant the world to Ginny Weasley just to hear Harry speak her name. "If you do go to the ceremony, Harry, dance with Ginny; you'll make her the happiest girl alive."  
  
Harry was looking at her blankly. "Sure I'll dance with her. Why wouldn't I?"  
  
"Because you never even notice she's alive." Ron was now sitting up straight and gauging his best friend's reaction carefully. He was aware of his younger sister's feelings for Harry, but remained reluctant to influence Harry either way, preferring to let nature take its course. This time, however, Hermione was right; it far too perfect a chance for Harry to let slip away.  
  
"That's not true!" Harry was becoming indignant. "She doesn't like me that much." But his voice wavered slightly, and held no confidence.  
  
Hermione spoke quietly and solemnly. "She loves you, Harry; she loves you more than I've ever seen one person love another. What my mother feels for my father can't compare with how Ginny feels about you. You couldn't possibly imagine the power you have over her."  
  
Ron nodded his agreement, and Harry looked alarmed. "You can't be serious. I'm hurting her feelings?"  
  
Hermione squirmed; she wasn't inclined to tell him the truth in the event that it would only make a tender situation worse. "Not necessarily, but you're passing up chances to make her happy. You don't have to love her back; just smile at her once in awhile, or say something nice to her."  
  
Harry stared off at the lake and absorbed what his friends had just said to him. Hermione watched him for a moment, but he appeared to want silence, so she turned her concern to the time; students were beginning to file back into the castle for afternoon lessons.  
  
"We should go, you two. We'll be late."  
  
"No we won't." Ron's voice was muffled by a yawn as he lay on his back in the sunlight. "You worry too much, 'Mione."  
  
"Fine, you two can be late. I'm reporting to class on time." She grabbed her bag and brushed crumbs off her robes. Harry had not budged from his pensive position and was still staring absently into space; she cuffed him gently over the head and he looked up, startled.  
  
"I'm going to class," she told him, side-stepping Ron and heading toward the castle. "See if you can drag that thing to where it belongs."  
  
Ron chucked a rock at her, but it missed by several feet. Harry threw a rock at Ron and it hit him squarely in the stomach. Hermione watched the two and shook her head; immature or not, they were fun to know. She wouldn't have given that up for the world.  
  
* * *  
  
The days passed with agonizingly slow speed, and Hermione would find herself frequently counting down their next Potions lesson. She knew better than to initiate a verbal battle with Snape in the classroom, but just seeing him would be wonderful. Could she ever get used to that thought? Often, she wondered if she was still in a sane, logical state of mind. Hermione Granger, friend of Harry Potter, a Muggle-born, a Gryffindor, was not supposed to look forward to seeing Professor Snape.  
  
As of yet, she was still trying to rationalize her feelings to herself. She refused to admit that she had an actual crush on the Potions master, because that would imply feelings of a romantic nature. Convinced that hers were not of that kind—yet—she was willing to attribute her excitement for seeing him to a simple change in opinion. Perhaps he wasn't quite as vile as she'd previously thought.  
  
Deep down, Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before she was going to acknowledge having a crush on Professor Snape; but she would not do so even a second before she absolutely had to. She had no idea when the defining point would occur, or what would cause it, but it was coming. She could feel it, and when it came, it was going to be nothing like her adolescent crush on Gilderoy Lockhart, or immature musings about Viktor Krum.  
  
Her magical moment occurred, as it turned out, that very class period. It was a Friday, overcast outside and very quiet within the castle. A bout of the Muggle flu was traveling the castle and a good portion of the student body was housed, currently, in the infirmary under the strict direction of Madam Pomfrey. Hermione was grateful for her apparent immunity to the virus; even Ron had been feeling a bit under the weather, and he was typically the hardiest person she knew.  
  
It was a depressing day, not the kind any girl would choose to fall in love for the first time; but Hermione, of course, had no choice in the matter. Even the prospect of seeing Professor Snape was not enough to make her actually enjoy her morning, especially with Ron's creepily quiet attitude and Harry's incessant complaining. They arrived in the Potions classroom to find that their cauldrons of Veritaserum, a two-week project, were finished.  
  
Snape had written no directions on the blackboard; they were deeply startled, and whisperings began to circulate that perhaps he was feeling ill with the flu as the other students were. They were proved wrong, however, when the door flew open and the black cloak, the first noticeable thing about him, swept into the room. A collective but silent groan arose; he was here, after all.  
  
Snape then proceeded to dole out the strangest classroom directions they would ever hear. "As you have probably discerned," he began, "your cauldrons of Veritaserum are finished; they are ready to be tested."  
  
Tested? The class stiffened visibly.  
  
"I would like a volunteer," he continued, "to test the potions. If no one volunteers, I have not the authority within this school to force anyone; that would be illegal. But I can administer the potion to a willing volunteer, under Headmaster Dumbledore's orders. Anyone?"  
  
"Damn," Ron whispered in awe as ten hands shot up immediately from various locations within the room. Hermione nodded her agreement; she hadn't expected that any student would want to subject themselves to the possible humiliation of taking Veritaserum in front of their class. She knew Snape was right; administering it to a willing volunteers was perfectly legal. But still…. Were they insane?  
  
Among those raising their hands was Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil's best friend. Snape seemed amused by the prospect of having Lavender Brown spill her true feelings about her gossipy friend to the entire class, so he chose her. Lavender did not seem the least bit apprehensive; she drank the vial of clear potion he handed to her with a single gulp.  
  
A wave of nausea passed across her face, and she moaned softly; but then it appeared to abate, and she sat up straight again with a slight giggle.  
  
"Miss Brown realizes, as I'm sure do the rest of you, that she is now physically incapable of lying," Snape addressed them. "Miss Brown, will you answer questions?"  
  
"Sure," she piped up cheerfully. "Hey, someone write down my answers so I can read them later and see what I really think." Seamus Finnigan, giving Lavender a sadistic smile, pulled out a piece of parchment, his quill, and with a flourish, wrote down her name at the top.  
  
"You have awful handwriting," Lavender commented, seemingly unable to restrain herself. Seamus looked taken aback; a few laughs rang out here and there in the class.  
  
"Sorry," she added, and he relaxed; she would not have been able to say she was sorry if she truly wasn't.  
  
"Hey Lavender," a Slytherin called from across the room, "what's your favorite subject?"  
  
"Boys." The answer was swiftly delivered with a sheepish grin, and this time the class did laugh. Hermione had to shake her head in exasperation; she believed wholly that Lavender was telling the truth, but it was pitiful.  
  
"Do you like anyone?" the same voice asked. The Slytherin students were going to waste no time embarrassing Lavender as much as they possibly could, and for no other reason than she was from Gryffindor. It made Hermione burn with anger, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Lavender had known perfectly well what she was getting herself involved in, and it was her decision.  
  
"Dean," Lavender said immediately, "but I never said anything because he asked Parvati out."  
  
Parvati stiffened visibly, and no one was laughing this time. Snape had taken the empty seat of an absent student that happened to be right in front of Hermione, and was now only a foot or so away from her. She was torn between wanting to look over and see how he reacted to Lavender's confession and knowing that she might betray feelings she didn't want known.  
  
"But you don't have to worry, Parvati," Lavender added, "because I never planned on trying to break you two up." Parvati looked intensely relieved, and Dean spoke a few quiet words to her. She relaxed even more, enough to cross her legs provocatively in front of her and flash him a smile. Hermione thought she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Snape roll his eyes and assume a bored expression.  
  
"What's your favorite school subject?" Dean spoke up, anxious to turn the topic of conversation away from such a controversial area.  
  
Lavender thought for a moment, pursing her lips. Her blue eyes looked troubled; she was having trouble deciding. "Care of Magical Creatures, because it's the easiest class," she finally announced. "But I wish Hagrid wasn't so frightening."  
  
"Hagrid isn't frightening." Harry bristled at the attack on his friend and gave Lavender an angry look.  
  
"He scares me," she retorted, "even worse than Professor Snape." Had she forgotten he was in the room? Snape did not smile; he looked rather disappointed. Hermione chuckled, seeing his expression, and their eyes met for a moment before she turned her attention back toward Lavender.  
  
"I think you may have an admirer, sir," Malfoy drawled, smirking as he planned the best way to mortify Lavender in front of Hogwarts' most unpopular teacher. "Do you like Professor Snape, Lavender?"  
  
Hermione said a silent, thankful prayer that she was not in Lavender's place. She could not be positive of what she would say, but she had a sinking feeling it would not be the answer she wanted her classmates to hear.  
  
Lavender was now squirming uncomfortably; she did not want to answer the question. Snape was beginning to look alarmed, and Hermione realized with shock that he did not want Lavender to have to suffer an interrogation at the hands of the other students; perhaps that would place him in a troublesome position with Dumbledore. Curiosity got the better of him, it seemed, and he did not move, but opened his mouth to say something to Lavender.  
  
She spoke first. "No, I don't actually like him, because he's too creepy." It was spoken emphatically, and each and every Gryffindor relaxed, while the Slytherins looked as though they'd been denied a special treat. It had not worked; Draco Malfoy sat in sullen silence and regarding Lavender with contempt.  
  
"What do you think about me?" Parvati asked Lavender. It caught everyone's attention; now there was a potentially hazardous question. What did Lavender really think of her so-called best friend.  
  
"I think you're too bossy," Lavender began, and Parvati reddened, "and you're too possessive of Dean. Not to mention that you took the whole 'first date' thing way too seriously, and it's getting very irritating."  
  
Parvati looked as though she wanted to cry; Hermione bit her lip nervously and waited for Lavender to rectify the situation.  
  
"But on the good side," Lavender added hastily, "you're a great friend, you really do care about Dean, and you're very smart. Actually, I think you could be just as smart as Hermione if you tried, because you're a good student." Parvati managed a smile and Lavender returned it.  
  
"But then again," Lavender said with a giggle, "maybe there's no way to beat Hermione. She reads way too much."  
  
The tension in the class finally broke and everyone, including Professor Snape, laughed. Hermione was startled nearly to the point of fainting when she realized that Snape was laughing.  
  
"And there you have the truth, Miss Granger," he told her with a smile, and rose to return to the front of the class. She watched him walk away with mixed feelings of joy and aching. His laugh had been wonderful, genuine and uninhibited; she'd never been able to look at him as a normal man before.  
  
Indeed, she did have the truth; and one she now had to admit whether she liked it or not. 


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: The name "Gollum" is a creation of J.R.R. Tolkien's; I do not presume to own his works, only worship them.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Four  
  
  
  
Hermione woke early on the morning of Halloween to find the dormitory completely empty. Whereas normally she would have been relieved to be liberated of Parvati and Co., she felt rather hurt, and lonely; it didn't seem right to wake up alone in a room devoid of Parvati's incessant chatter.  
  
She rolled out of bed and placed unsteady feet on the floor, stretching as she did so. It was relaxing, she had to admit, but she couldn't help but wonder where everyone was. Halloween had occurred, mercifully, on a Saturday; she couldn't believe her luck. Saturdays were her days of escape and recuperation, and this one was a holiday in addition! Everyone was probably eating a magnificent breakfast in the Great Hall and getting on perfectly fine without her.  
  
Well, let them; she'd find something else to do. Rummaging through her school bags, she pulled out her latest book and grabbed her bathrobe; she peeked out through the portrait hole to make sure the halls were empty, and then scurried down several corridors and came to a stop in front of a large oak door surrounded on both sides by two hideous gargoyles. Gargoyles, she thought with a smile, seemed to be the castle's dominant theme; but none could compare to Dumbledore's, of course.  
  
Hermione whispered the password and the door creaked open at a painfully slow pace. Her eyes darted around to make sure that no one came, and when it was finally open sufficiently, she squeezed through and shut it as silently as she could. It was a private bathroom, meant solely for the Head Girl, and Hermione, technically, was not supposed to use it. She'd been offered the position of Head Girl, but prestigious as it was, had turned it down, fearing that it would interfere with her studies. Most people thought it surprisingly uncharacteristic of Hermione to turn down a position that would offer such obvious fame regarding her intelligence; she had a feeling they were just surprised she was modest.  
  
But the Head Girl, a Ravenclaw who closely followed Hermione in class rank, had been so grateful for the chance to be Head Girl that she'd promised Hermione she could use the position's most enjoyable privilege—the private, luxurious bathroom—anytime she wanted. Hermione was known to complain that she could not run a hot bubble bath and read a book like she did at home while she was at Hogwarts, for the lack of privacy; it was, she decided, the best gift the girl could have given her.  
  
They had coordinated times, and it worked out perfectly; Saturday mornings were Hermione's times to take refuge if she so chose. As everyone was now down at breakfast, she was even more alone than normal, and it was starting to feel great. She tapped the taps on the bathtub—really more like a miniature pool—and they began to foam with multicolored bubbles. She still couldn't believe her luck; maybe, if she'd known the Head Girl was awarded such riches, she would have ignored her neuroses and taken the position anyway.  
  
A good hour was spent in the tub devouring her book, and when her skin was completely wrinkled and her hair dehydrated, she decided it was time to get out; she was panting for breath in the stifling heat and sick of the touch of bubbles. The bath drained quickly, and she toweled off and pulled back on her nightgown and bathrobe. Then it was back to the Gryffindor common room, and up the stairs quickly to the girls' dormitory to change clothes. Not three minutes after she pulled on her sweater, the creak of the portrait hole reached her ears and voices could be heard down in the common room. She smiled; perfect timing, as usual.  
  
Harry and Ron, groaning that they'd eaten too much, refused to go anywhere with Hermione and settled themselves in for a game of wizard's chess. She wheedled a bit, but it was to no avail, so she finally abandoned them and headed downstairs. The Great Hall was by now emptied of its food, so she decided to head toward the kitchens and steal some leftovers from the house elves, whom she knew wouldn't mind; they were only too happy to oblige any hungry visitor.  
  
Thinking as she went along helped Hermione to pass the time. The kitchen came into view eventually, and she stood on tiptoes (she was never going to be especially tall) to reach the pair in the picture and give it a small tickle. Squirming, the pair giggled, and then the picture swung forward. She climbed through the door and found herself in the Hogwarts kitchen, perhaps the best-hidden room in the castle.  
  
Dobby knew Hermione quite well, and he noticed her immediately. "Miss is hungry?" he asked, and Hermione nodded, about to say she'd missed breakfast; but it didn't matter to Dobby. "Miss stay here!" he squeaked. "Dobby is getting food for miss, Dobby will…" and he trailed off to find her something. The house-elves were bustling about, putting away dirty pots and pans; in the corner, she could hear two elves planning the day's lunch menu. The elves always outdid themselves on the holidays, providing the students and staff with far better—and more—cuisine than they needed. By the end of the day, Ron and Harry were going to feel awful.  
  
Dobby returned a few minutes later with a stack of toast and handed it to Hermione. "Dobby is sorry, but the other stuff is gone." For a moment, she was afraid he was going to cry with desolation; his bright green eyes filled with tears and she quickly put down her toast to comfort him.  
  
"It's okay, Dobby, don't worry about it," she assured him. "I'm not hungry enough for anything else; it's okay!" Dobby brightened and gave her a smile, then pointed toward the door. "Dobby is wanting Miss to stay," he informed her sadly, "but we is busy, Miss, and Dobby is not having time to talk."  
  
"That's all right," she said. "I'll say hello to Harry for you, shall I?"  
  
"Oh, yes!" Dobby's tea-cozy hat was in danger of flying off his head as he jumped up and down excitedly. "Miss is saying hello to Harry Potter for Dobby, yes! Harry Potter is great wizard, Miss, and Miss is his friend, so Miss is great too."  
  
Hermione chuckled; Dobby was far too liberal with compliments. "Thank you, Dobby. I'll go now."  
  
Safely outside the kitchens, she walked back along the corridors, munching her toast and wondering what she would do that day to keep herself occupied. She had not yet reached the junction that led her back in the direction of the Gryffindor common room when she heard an odd noise; a scraping, soft but discernible, behind her.  
  
Hermione froze, and nearly dropped her toast. What came to mind immediately was Death Eaters; Lord Voldemort; Avada kedavra and instantaneous death. What she found when she turned, frightened, was a long black snake slithering toward her. She was not overly fond of snakes, but found herself to be in an adventurous mood, so she decided to follow it. Shoving the last bit of toast in her mouth and brushing crumbs off her robes, she jogged after the snake as it headed down a corridor in the opposite direction.  
  
The snake led her out another door and onto a balcony. Hermione was surprised; as far as she knew, only the teachers' private rooms had balconies, and among those, only a select few. Viewing the exterior of Hogwarts, she would never have imagined there was a balcony of such significant size; it was long and broad, with plenty of room for a party of people to mill about, or even for a pair of dancers, like a scene from a fairy-tale love story. She blushed at the thought and turned her attention back to the snake.  
  
It was headed straight for a crack between two pillars on the barrier! She was paralyzed at first, not sure what to do. The thought of touching the snake terrified her; but the though of the snake, quite possibly someone's pet, falling off the balcony to its death, made her feel guilty. She didn't know if it was aware of the drop-off, but she couldn't just let it plunge to its demise. She darted forward and placed a gentle hand around the base of the snake's head, squinting her eyes and waiting for its fangs to contact her flesh.  
  
Nothing of the sort happened; in fact, the snake seemed to like her. It flicked a gentle tongue against her wrist, and then began to twine itself around her arm, climbing upward to come to a rest draped, like a feather boa, around her neck. It seemed to snuggle itself in, as though preparing for a long ride; its tail flicked against one cheek and its head swayed back and forth in her peripheral vision, tongue flicking, tasting. She smiled; it wasn't slimy at all. Actually, it was rather friendly.  
  
But where had it come from? She couldn't imagine such an exotic-looking species being native to England, or even the northern hemisphere, for that matter; it looked like something she'd once seen in a documentary about hazardous African animals. Obviously, it was either a zoo escapee, or someone's pet; given their current location, she deduced that it was someone's pet.  
  
Whose? Hagrid's? No, she doubted it; Hagrid, though she did not doubt he would love the snake, had a fondness for larger, furrier animals with larger teeth and more frightening attributes. Dumbledore had Fawkes, it wasn't his; and it certainly wasn't a student's. A teacher's, then?  
  
Snape's. It had to be; who else? Part of her glowed at the thought that she'd saved his pet from tumbling to its death (had she? She preferred to think so), and another part of her wondered what he would say if she showed up with his snake curled around her neck. He'd probably accuse her of hurting or kidnapping it, and then give her detention. Not that she would mind that….  
  
Hermione made up her mind: she was going to return the snake. It was perfectly logical to think that it was Snape's, and if it wasn't, he might know whose it was. He couldn't exactly blame her for thinking him the teacher with the most potential to own a serpent, because there was something undeniably serpentine about him. She gave the snake a small smile, and it gave her what she decided was a small snake kiss; then they headed off the balcony and down the hallway.  
  
* * *  
  
There were no teachers in the Great Hall, nor in the staff room. She was puzzled at first, and knew that she couldn't walk up to the nearest person and merely ask them for directions; they'd take one look at the animal wrapped around her neck and run as fast as they possibly could in the other direction. The snake seemed completely at home and showed no inclination of removing itself. She would have to search out Professor Snape on her own.  
  
Where his private quarters were, she had no idea; but she decided that he was most likely in there, or in his office. A quick stroll to the dungeons confirmed her belief that he was neither in the classroom nor in his office. The bookshelves struck a chord in her and she remembered that night a few weeks ago when she'd stood in front of them and embarrassed herself horribly with her prejudiced comments. Snape had taken them lightly, she thought; perhaps he was accustomed to it.  
  
Rats scurried here and there as she left the dungeons, and the snake hissed at each one that passed. A slight glow reflected off its eyes and Hermione was unnerved by the sleek ebony head that darted here and there around her neck. Finally they reached the stairs, and left the rats behind to ascend back into the castle proper. Where was his private quarters?  
  
She was turning in confused circles, debating whether or not she should chance asking someone, when a voice startled her.  
  
"Miss Granger."  
  
Oh, God, it was him. She whirled around and instinctively placed a hand over the snake to keep it from falling. It needed no help; its grip on her neck tightened noticeably when she turned sharply, and was released once she'd steadied herself. The snake tilted its head and peered directly into her eyes; now she had two interrogators.  
  
"I see you've found my lost pet."  
  
"Y-Yes, she—he—it—was crawling around in the corridors, and I found it."  
  
"It is a she. Continue." His eyes were colder than she had ever seen them, and his presence was generally intimidating.  
  
Hermione balked; what more was there to say? She found her faltering voice again and did her best. "Well, I didn't realize anyone in the castle owned a snake—that is, I assumed it was domesticated, given that it looks far too exotic to be indigenous—so I followed…her. She went out onto a balcony, and was making me nervous because she got far too close to the edge, so I thought I'd better find her owner before she, ah, hurt herself."  
  
She'd been rambling, hadn't she? Mentally rebuking herself for being so juvenile, she waited for a nervous three or four seconds for his reply. He was looking first at his lost pet, and then over at her, with a stare of blatant appraisal. Was he surprised? Or angry?  
  
"Thank you for your concern. She tends to be far too explorative for her own good." He turned on his heel and motioned with a hand for her to follow him. "Come with me; we'll have to take her back to my quarters. She will not come off your neck unless forced, and I don't want to cause a stir in the castle."  
  
Hermione shuddered slightly at "forced." What did he intend to do to her, yank the snake from around her shoulders? If provoked, it would surely attack her, and she couldn't blame it. Snape led her down three or four more corridors, until she recognized where she was; somewhere between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common room entrances. Then it was down a flight of stairs, into an area that looked deserted. He opened a door to their left, hidden in shadows, and motioned for her to precede him into the room. He saw her obvious terror, and smiled wryly.  
  
She walked in slowly, having not the slightest idea what awaited her; it was, in fact, a complete and utter shock. The room didn't look at all like she would have imagined Snape's private rooms looking; in fact, it looked normal, like a scholar's room. The furniture was neutral-colored and simple (there was, she noticed, an unusually large percentage of black-colored objects; he wasn't entirely normal), and one window, built into the rise of the ceiling, filled the room with some amount of light.  
  
Once again, the bookshelves struck her; this time, there were even more of them, lining just about every wall, filled with an even larger volume of books than he had in his office. He noticed her staring at the books, and once again could not suppress a smile; Hermione Granger would never have guessed that he, himself, had a passion for books. She would never have attributed such a worthwhile pursuit to his personality.  
  
The snake was beginning to sense that it was at home, and loosened itself slightly, but seemed reluctant to remove itself completely. Hermione placed a hand gingerly on it and tugged; the snake darted forward to stare her straight in the eye, and for the second time, closing the door behind her, she heard Severus Snape laugh. It was not a cruel laugh, but simply a laugh, and the two startling happenings together were making her feel faint.  
  
He walked over calmly and placed one hand beneath the snake's head. She could feel his fingers brush against the bare skin of her neck as he lifted the snake from her shoulders and carried it across the room. He placed it gently on the floor in front of a large gap in the bricks, and the snake, with a barely perceptible glance backward to thank her, slithered off into its hole. She was reminded of a mouse returning to its own hole, or a wolf returning to its den.  
  
Snape turned back to her, but didn't seem to know what to say. The silence was uncomfortable, and she could feel the tension building in the room between them. Her mind and body filled with conflicting emotions and she had no idea whether she should stay or run; what she wanted and what she knew was right could not be brought into agreement.  
  
"Thank you for returning her." She was unaccustomed to Snape showing any gratitude toward her, and it was visible on her face. "In case you were wondering"—he was facing her now, arms crossed casually, voice quiet—"you were right; she is not indigenous to this region. I purchased her through a friend of mine who works elsewhere. She is highly poisonous, but relatively tame around humans."  
  
"Does she have a name?" It seemed a harmless enough question to ask. Nearly seven years now, she had known this man, and still she could not find anywhere within her the strength to face him as herself.  
  
"Gollum." She couldn't help but laugh. "I thought at first she was male, but she's grown used to the name, so 'Gollum' it remains."  
  
"You read J.R.R. Tolkien?" She had read his books, and enjoyed them, though her taste was usually more in the classics.  
  
He nodded. "One must have something to pass the time. You would be surprised, Miss Granger, at how much we have in common."  
  
She could sense that he regretted the open and inviting nature of the statement immediately, and wasn't sure how to respond. "I never thought of us as being alike," she said carefully after hesitating, not able to meet his eyes.  
  
"You wouldn't. Why should you?" His voice now had a slight undertone of bitterness, as though he was a child complaining of being underappreciated.  
  
"You went to Hogwarts, sir." She wasn't sure how to articulate what she wanted to ask, and found herself struggling to get the point across. "Were you…a good student? Did you study most of the time, like me?"  
  
He shrugged. "A good deal, though perhaps not as obsessively as I expect you do." Her eyes narrowed defensively, and he chuckled. "I am not insulting you, Miss Granger; I'm merely stating an observation. Yes, I was a good student; I managed to overcome the previous record, held by a student there years before, and my overall record remains the best in the school."  
  
She gasped. Snape the Brain? Why did that not make any sense? "You're kidding."  
  
He looked at her as though she had slapped him. "No, Miss Granger, I am not kidding. I didn't realize you gave so little credit to my intelligence."  
  
"I just…never thought about it."  
  
"That's obvious." His voice was cold.  
  
Silence again, but this time, even more palpable. She could fell his eyes on her, and while she knew she was staring right back at him, she was not fully aware of everything that seemed to be going on, and the emotions coursing through her body. She knew only one thing: that if she stayed in the room one moment longer, she was going to break down and either confess her thoughts about him or begin crying. Either one was undesirable.  
  
"I need to leave." She turned abruptly and left the room, closing the door quickly behind her. Once outside of hearing range, she broke into a run and fled the premises, hoping that he was not standing in the center of his room, laughing at her childish stupidity. He was, in fact, as confused as she; he'd meant for their talk to be as friendly as he could possibly make it, not an uncomfortable confrontation.  
  
But being "friendly" was not one of his strong points, and he knew it. He preferred that people feared him; it kept them a safe distance away and out of his life. Hermione's sudden departure had him thinking harder than he had in a very long time. If he accepted what he felt, instead of rationalizing based on what he knew to be right and wrong, then the fact was that he'd wanted her to stay; he enjoyed her company.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione would not have been surprised if she had set an Olympic record in tearing from Snape's quarters and heading back toward the Gryffindor common room. Her breath was catching in her chest with every step and her robes caught between her feet, slowing her stride. She could still feel the place on her shoulder where Snape's fingers had brushed against her skin and wished she could rip it off; it would haunt her.  
  
She skidded to a stop in front of the portrait covering the entrance to the common room. Farther down the hall, a group she recognized as several members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were hanging around and talking; they shot startled looks at her when she nearly tripped in her haste to gasp the password and climb through the portrait hole. The common room had only a few inhabitants, but they were not on her mind; she needed to find Ginny.  
  
"Ginny?" She peeked her head into the dorm room for the sixth-year girls, to find Ginny lying on her bed next to a friend; they were reading a magazine. They looked up in surprise, and their looks grew even more puzzled when they saw Hermione's obviously frantic state.  
  
"I need to talk to Ginny," Hermione said to the friend, whom she was unfamiliar with. The girl glanced over at Ginny, who gave her an apologetic look and nodded; she rose and left the room, pausing just for a moment to look the intruder over and make her point known: she did not appreciate being excluded from something involving her friend. Hermione wondered if she should also apologize, but the words swimming through her head begged to be spoken, so she ignored the impulse and threw herself down on the floor by Ginny's bed.  
  
"What is wrong with you?" Her friend gone, Ginny was open and very concerned. "You look like you ran from Hogsmeade…. You're crying!" Indeed, tears were coursing down Hermione's face. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I—I'm okay," Hermione whispered, shocked to find her face damp. "I'm just a little shaken, that's all."  
  
"Tell me what's wrong before I start crying." Ginny was fighting the urge to put a comforting arm around her friend, and could feel her own lip trembling. Hermione looked as though she was in serious trouble; naturally, thoughts of Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters surfaced first in Ginny's brain. What had happened to frighten Hermione so completely?  
  
"I need to admit something to you." Hermione was rising now; she sat gingerly on the bed, placing a hand on one shoulder, against her neck, as though she expected something to be there. "This isn't easy, and please don't laugh at me, I feel horrible enough already."  
  
Ginny folded her hands in front of her and stared at Hermione, silent as a tomb. Hermione couldn't help but smile; her friend knew exactly how to react to her eccentricities. She sighed and repositioned herself so that the two girls were sitting, cross-legged, facing one another; it truly felt like a girls-only gabfest.  
  
"I have a problem." No, really? she snapped at herself.  
  
Ginny nodded. "And that is…?"  
  
She knew she had to spit the words out, but it was far more difficult than she'd thought moments before, when a confession seemed the best idea. She rolled them around on her tongue, trying to find the best way to get her message across without Ginny suffering a heart attack.  
  
"I can't say it." She buried her face in her hands and gave a resounding sigh. Ginny frowned, and then opened her mouth for a moment, searching for her own words.  
  
"What's it about?"  
  
"Snape." Well, that had come out easily. Predictably, Ginny looked quizzical; she couldn't possibly imagine what problems Hermione might have encountered with the Potions master. She was only concerned, typically, with her grades, and as far as Ginny knew, her grades in every class remained impeccable.  
  
"What did he do?"  
  
A million things, Hermione thought angrily, each striking her more deeply than the ones before. But what she said was, "Nothing, it's what I did."  
  
Ginny gasped, then giggled. "You told him off!" She looked envious, and Hermione suspected that, were that the case, Ginny would be disappointed at not witnessing the scene.  
  
"No!" Her voice sounded harsh, and Ginny reacted as though she'd slapped her. "No," she said more gently, "I didn't tell him off. I didn't tell him anything."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
It begged to come out. "I like him."  
  
Three simple words, and yet their effects on Ginny were astounding. She stared at first, as though not truly seeing Hermione, her eyes glazed over. Then she blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus; the eyes grew wide, the mouth opened, and before she knew it, Ginny was off the bed and pacing back and forth, trying to stifle a laugh.  
  
"Oh, God, Hermione, that was as good one. Seriously, what's wrong?"  
  
Hermione said nothing; her look told all.  
  
"Oh no. You're serious?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You can't like Snape," Ginny told her firmly, "it just isn't possible."  
  
"The hell I don't!" Hermione was angry now. Ginny, of all people, was supposed to believe her, to be her support. "I can tell I like him, Ginny, it doesn't take a doctor to figure it out!"  
  
"But why?"  
  
"I don't know why!" Hermione threw her hands in the air in frustration.  
  
"You don't love him, do you? It's just a crush, right?" Hermione did not respond to her question; she looked shocked and unsteady, as though the slightest breeze would blow her over.  
  
Now that was something to think about. Hermione's own opinion was that she, of all people, wouldn't recognize love if it hit her over the head with a sledgehammer; but as confused as she was right then, anything was possible. She recognized none of the feelings she was experiencing; who knew? One might, quite possibly, be love.  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"You don't think so?"  
  
"No." Ginny looked skeptical.  
  
"When did this happen?"  
  
Again, Hermione seemed at a loss for words. "I don't know, really. I just started noticing him, and then…. Do you remember, several weeks ago, how everyone was discussing what happened in our Potions class, when Lavender Brown volunteered to be a guinea pig for the Veritaserum trial?"  
  
"Yes." Ginny's head was tilted and she was watching Hermione through studious eyes, as though trying to read into her words like one would a book.  
  
"Well, Lavender mentioned something about me—about my reading habits. And he laughed at me."  
  
"Damn," Ginny said sarcastically, "that's the sweetest thing, Hermione. Now I know why you're in love with him!"  
  
The humor was lost on Hermione; now that her pent-up thoughts were pouring forth in a flood, she was powerless to stop them. "Only it wasn't a spiteful laugh; it wasn't anything you would imagine him being capable of. It was a normal laugh."  
  
"Severus Snape," Ginny said with quiet ferocity, "is anything but normal."  
  
"I know, I know; but he seemed so relaxed, so open…. Not friendly, exactly, but teasing, in an affectionate way."  
  
"I would not add 'affectionate' to his list of possible characteristics," Ginny objected.  
  
"That's what it was, though."  
  
Ginny pivoted on her feet and turned her back to Hermione; she began to rub her temples as though their conversation was giving her a migraine, and stood that way for several minutes, thinking. When she turned back, her words struck Hermione as both sincere and commanding.  
  
"Look, Hermione, I don't know what to think; I honestly don't. But you seem serious, and I'll believe you. Just promise me you won't do anything."  
  
Now it was Hermione's turn to look confused. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Don't do anything foolish. Don't try to seduce the man, for God's sake! You, of all people, know that a student and a teacher going out is wrong."  
  
Hermione had not thought of that, either.  
  
"You'll get over it," Ginny promised her. "Just promise me you won't act on it."  
  
Hermione relented. "All right. I promise."  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny spent the evening with friends, prowling the grounds around Hogwarts and playing various tricks on whomever they came across. Her mind, preoccupied with other thoughts, did not wander often to Hermione's predicament. She had to admit that, deep down, she did not believe her friend; Hermione Granger, known for scrupulously avoiding matters of the heart, could not possibly like Professor Snape. There was nothing to see in him.  
  
They returned the common room late, giggling uncontrollably and kicking each other to make sure no one gave away their presence; every time footsteps were heard in the halls, they ducked into the nearest empty room and held their breath until the person passed. Ginny never thought of herself as a troublemaker, though perhaps she was numbed to rule-breaking somewhat by being the younger sister of Fred and George Weasley. She saw it as having fun with her friends; letting loose for the holidays; being a teenager.  
  
The common room was empty, and suddenly she remembered Hermione. As her friends trooped upstairs to change for bed, she slipped aside and quietly opened the door to the seventh-year girls' room. Parvati and Lavender were absent from their beds, but Hermione was there. She crept closer, wanting to ask Hermione what she'd done during the evening.  
  
Hermione was fast asleep; she was curled up, her hands clutching the covers, and a strange look on her face: a mixture of troubled worry and relaxed joy. Ginny wondered briefly what—or who—she was dreaming about. She paid little attention to the book next to the her, its page still clearly marked, that had fallen aside when Hermione passed into sleep: Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. But Ginny, of course, would not have known its significance. 


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: I am eternally grateful for the reviews thus far! They have kept me willing and interested to write; I was afraid of a hostile welcome and more criticism than encouragement, but everyone has been friendly, open- minded and wonderful (I love this site!).  
  
Also, when it comes to writing references to holidays, customs and the like, I don't know exactly what is said in England (I am American), so I apologize if I write something incorrectly; I'll do my best, based on what I've read in the novels, but I can't promise anything.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Fall passed imperceptibly into winter; Hermione awoke one morning to see snow falling, and for several seconds, did not realize where she was. Her mind had been for so long occupied by schoolwork and worries about her strange new feelings that she had paid little attention to what went on in her surroundings. She threw herself with all her effort into her schoolwork; when Snape was in the same room, she avoided him as much as possible. He, for his part, noticed her reaction, and was both angered and hurt; the glances they exchanged were never friendly, but they could not help, it seemed, looking at one another.  
  
The weeks flew by, and before Hermione knew it, Christmas was fast approaching. She thought long and hard on whether or not she should escape from Hogwarts and join her family at home. Many an hour the decision plagued her, and she finally turned to Harry and Ron for guidance; if they stayed, she would stay. But she would not take the chance that most students left, and she remained at Hogwarts to accidentally run into Snape in the hallways every day.  
  
She approached them one evening while they were immersed in Divination homework (with a slightly smug smile, of course, because she never regretted deserting that subject), and sat down to peer over their shoulders. Harry noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Hermione was acting strangely. She fidgeted with the hem of her robes and her eyes, as usual, were staring at something that was not being comprehended by her brain. He had a feeling there was something wrong, but was not certain how to approach it; girls, he had discovered, were always emotional concerning that sort of thing.  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
"Yeah?" She looked up, startled; so she hadn't been observing their papers as closely as she had wanted them to think.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Uh—yeah." She flashed a stiff, forced smile. "But I need to ask you two something, if that's all right."  
  
"Sure." Ron tossed down his quill and leaned back to listen; he was regarding Hermione with nothing but a purely friendly look, and it seemed to Harry as though Ron saw no aspect of Hermione's behavior that warranted worry. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.  
  
"Are you two staying at Hogwarts for Christmas vacation?"  
  
Harry snorted. "Where else am I supposed to go? The Dursleys'?"  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "Hell, no. They'd probably cook you for Christmas dinner." Harry grinned at that; he could believe it.  
  
"So you're staying?" Hermione was paying no attention to their playful humor; she looked unusually grave, and Harry was positive her skin was paler than usual. How long had she looked this way?  
  
"You bet."  
  
"I'll stay, too," Ron spoke up. "Mum and Dad are going to Egypt to meet with Bill and Audrey, and they'll probably put Fred and George in an asylum to keep them out of trouble." He chuckled. "That would be priceless."  
  
Hermione nodded. "All right. I'll stay, then. I was debating whether or not I should go home."  
  
Harry tried to make his next question as nonchalant as possible. "Why would you want to do that? You've stayed here the last few years."  
  
She blushed slightly, and shrugged. "Well, I don't know…. This is my last year, after all, and once we're done here, I'll be off to find a job, live on my own…. Who knows how often I'll have an opportunity to visit my parents?"  
  
"But," Ron pointed out firmly, "as you said, this is your last year at Hogwarts—all the more reason to stay and enjoy it!"  
  
Hermione did not look as though she had the potential to enjoy anything; in fact, she looked slightly green in the pale firelight cast by the fireplace nearby. "Excellent point," she said, rising to her feet unsteadily. "I'll stay—thanks, you guys."  
  
They watched her receding figure as she went back up the stairs, both wondering to themselves whether or not they should look into the possibility that there was something wrong. Ron finally voiced his concern—"Is she okay? Seems strange to me"—and Harry emphatically agreed. He forced himself to turn back to his homework and accept the fact that Hermione was far more mature than they, and capable of handling her own problems; but Ron stared at the staircase long after she had disappeared, a look of worry and suspicion on his face.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione's parents had indeed hoped that she would opt to spend the Christmas holidays with them. They watched the mail, though primarily the Muggle mail, with hawklike observation and diligence. When Dr. Charlotte Granger arrived at her home late one evening a week before the holidays, she was overjoyed to see a letter, in a Muggle envelope, waiting for her, addressed in Hermione's perfect cursive.  
  
Ripping open the letter, she scanned the pages eagerly, looking for something along the lines of "Can't wait to see you," but found no such thing. Instead, she was disappointed, even rather shocked, to find that Hermione had written the exact opposite.  
  
'I do miss you and Dad, but I have decided I would like to remain at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry have pointed out that this is my last year, and it would mean the world to me if I could spend it at Hogwarts…. If you and Dad could find it in yourselves to grant me this wish, I would be extremely grateful. I miss you both terribly and am looking forward to seeing you this summer, and we will certainly have much to celebrate….'  
  
Beyond that, she could find nothing that commanded special attention. Hermione went on to describe, briefly, an amusing incident in Potions class regarding something called Truth Serum, and tell the great news that Ron's eldest brother, Bill Weasley, was engaged to be married very soon; the lucky girl was Audrey something-or-other, and fortunately, both worked for Gringotts in the exact same location. Hermione sounded happy, Charlotte decided, even excited for her friend; nothing too stressful could be going on at school.  
  
And so she was surprised, later, when her husband pointed out a worrisome discrepancy in Hermione's letter. Her writing, typically feather-light, curly, feminine strokes in perfectly written cursive, was dark and blurred, as though she had been pushing on the quill unusually hard and gripping it more tightly. Something, he speculated, might possibly be upsetting her, and she was not willing to inform them, for whatever reason; besides, he told her, placing a finger gently on the lower corner of the page, there was a tiny spot that looked suspiciously like a stain made by a tear.  
  
* * *  
  
On the same evening that the Grangers received their daughter's letter, she was making her way nervously up the steps that led to the library. Well- trodden and familiar to her, she now looked as though she was marching to the guillotine; her lips were pursed and her hands clenched into white- knuckled fists. Her eyes were darting here and there, her breath laborious. She was frightened.  
  
Once in the library, she scampered to the very back of the room, far beyond Madam Pince's sight. Hermione visited the library more than her fair share, perhaps even more than all the other students in her House combined; her presence was noted, but not really noticed.  
  
Hermione scanned the oldest section of shelves, the Hogwarts reference books and rules; finally, she pulled from the shelves what could quite possibly have been the most ancient book in the school. It was a massive tome, far too heavy for her to carry without difficulty, and covered in thick layers of dust. The pages, yellowed with age and faded, stuck together as she tried to turn them. Her fingers were clumsy and her palms sweaty; she glanced around once again to make sure she had no observers, and then checked the index in the back of the book.  
  
Muttering to herself, she began to flip backward in the book to find the correct page. It was not one that had been often read, judging by the lack of dog-eared page tops in that particular section. Her eyes scanned through the words until she found what she was looking for.  
  
Under the various rules and regulations was a section especially dedicated to relationships within the school. Originally, this section had been written to ensure that, should two teachers begin to forge a relationship, certain precautions were taken to prevent their work productivity from diminishing as a result. But as the years went by and newer editions of the book were printed, additions had been made to the rules. Hermione found the section regarding student-teacher relationships quite easily—the ink was hardly faded at all, and it would have been difficult to miss.  
  
'Relationships between Students and Teachers,' the book read, 'are to remain of a platonic nature only. Any romantic or intimate attachments between any Hogwarts Employee and a Student, whether or not the Student is in the House for which the Employee is Head, in the Employee's class, etc., are strictly forbidden.'  
  
Well. Things were off to an excellent start.  
  
'Should a relationship of the nature mentioned above be discovered, punishments are to ensue immediately. It is up to the discretion of the Headmaster to determine the punishment of the Student, though extensive suspension or even expulsions are highly recommended. The Teacher is to be released from employment and, if need should arise, be placed in the hands of the Authorities.'  
  
Hermione could not help but want to scream; such words would surely make Snape wild about her, she thought wryly, and slammed the book shut with unintended force. Several heads from various locations in the room shot up and looked at her in surprise. Now holding back tears in a volume she had not even realized herself capable of crying, Hermione walked as quickly as she could toward the exit. She kept her blurred sight on the door and refused to meet the gazes of the other students, who were still watching her interestedly.  
  
Outside again, she closed the door with deliberate gentleness and then tore down the stairs. She was disgusted with herself for allowing her emotions to get the better of her; evenings like this afforded ample opportunity for studying, and were not to be wasted acting under the influence of stupid, juvenile crushes on teachers. Her parents, she told herself, would have been ashamed of her; this was not Hermione Granger!  
  
She could not bring herself to return to the dorm room, so she sought refuge on the balcony near the kitchens instead, where she had first run into Gollum. Thinking about the amiable snake and her master, both probably locked away in that strange room in the dungeons, made Hermione feel even more miserable. Days were becoming difficult for her now, each one a constant battle with her inner self. Sooner or later, something was going to give—and she hoped, for the sake of her dignity and her education, that it was not her self-control.  
  
* * *  
  
If Hermione's determination to avoid Professor Snape was strong, her desire to see him was indestructible; she fought internal verbal wars with herself daily, but could not seem to make her morals overcome her ridiculous crush. Ginny noticed multiple times her friend's torment and tried to comfort her, but Hermione would not let her close; she had walled herself and her emotions off in the hopes that, while it was uncomfortable in the present, it would prove to be the right decision in the long run.  
  
It was ironic, then, that Snape himself set about the course of actions that caused her last moral barricade to crumble and cave in. It was Christmas Day, and Hermione had woken up feeling worse than she had all year; nothing seemed to be going her way, and all she could think about was the approaching evening, when she, Harry, Ron, and any other resident students would be obliged to attend dinner in the Great Hall with the teachers. There were very few students remaining; besides the three of them, only Ginny and two Ravenclaws chose to stay at Hogwarts. The dinner would be intimate; she would end up sitting at the same table as Professor Snape.  
  
She prayed all day that he would come down with an inexplicable illness or be called away for duty by Lord Voldemort, but had no luck; evening arrived and her feet were like lead as they walked down the stairs toward the Great Hall. Before they turned the corner and walked through the doors, Hermione exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes against some invisible foe. Ron and Harry gaped at her; there was something very wrong, but now was not the time to address it. They had a dinner to attend.  
  
Hermione gave a small whimper when she noticed the mistletoe hanging above the entrance and dashed through as though she had seen a ghost. She had intended to snatch for herself a chair at the very end of the table, but upon trying, she found that the three of them were the last to arrive. There were only three surplus chairs, on the left side, and Ron and Harry were quick to choose the two closest to the end. Hermione was in the very middle, across form Dumbledore—and, to his left, Snape.  
  
Her eyes remained cast downward, on her plate, for the first ten minutes of the meal. Fortunately, all other professors were occupied, talking amongst themselves, or to Harry and Ron, who were in loquacious moods that day and seemed grateful for any conversation. Hermione ate absently and begged God to let the meal end quickly; she wanted to crawl into a hole and die when Dumbledore noticed her solemn, silent composure and asked, "Hermione, are you feeling all right? You seem ill."  
  
"Miss Granger is still shaken, I daresay, from finding my pet snake roaming the castle," Snape spoke up quietly, looking hard at her for a moment before returning his gaze to his own dinner. "She was kind enough to return it to me."  
  
A smile played at the corners of Dumbledore's lips and he asked in a friendly way, "Is that what's wrong, Hermione? I assure you, Severus' snake is quite tame; I myself have handled her, and found her to be a most agreeable animal."  
  
"Indeed." Snape put down his fork and did not remove his eyes from Hermione's as he continued, "I suspect that she is…pining for you, Miss Granger; she has not been the same since you left." His words were quiet and deliberate, as was his gaze; she wanted to melt under its intensity and she saw, with immediate horror, that Ginny, from her place, was reading into his look the same way she was. He was not talking about Gollum.  
  
"Then perhaps a visit is in order?" Dumbledore suggested lightly, making no note of the pained expression that flashed across her face. He could not know the irony of his words, but she and Snape both did; Snape continued to look at her with his depthless black eyes and she wondered how quickly she could dash from the room. Would they catch her before she reached the doors leading outside?  
  
"Really," Professor Flitwick spoke up, "honestly, must we talk about snakes? At dinner?" He shuddered. "I don't know how you can live with such a creature, Severus, and in your own room!"  
  
"It is far less dangerous"—Snape's voice was almost indistinguishable, too quiet and deep for her to hear—"than other creatures I could think of."  
  
"Like a hippogriff!" Ginny's intervention was intentional, but much needed. Hermione could tell by her look that she sensed her friend's discomfort, and understood the hidden meaning of the words that Snape had just spoken while staring so intently at Hermione.  
  
"Precisely," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Speaking of hippogriffs, Hagrid, I have been meaning to ask you…" And the conversation drifted off in different directions. Snape gave her one more long, calculated look before rising from the table and striding out of the Great Hall, black robes billowing behind him. It was another fifteen minutes before the children felt it fit to excuse themselves and Hermione managed to ditch Harry and Ron on the way to the common room and slip off toward the dungeons. Her stomach was knotting in her abdomen with dread at what she knew she was going to have to confess.  
  
Whether it was precognition or simply a hunch, Hermione did not know; but there he was, outside his office, waiting for her. Her steps slowed to a near stop when she saw him and she approached with a heavy, dismayed shuffle.  
  
His arms were crossed casually in front of him, and he was leaning against the wall, looking down at her. She glanced to the right and saw that the door was slightly ajar, and lights were on inside his office. Wondering briefly where it was best to stage the interrogation, she decided that it would be easier to move inside his office; if she could get him to sit down, it would give her a head start running when she finally blurted out the truth.  
  
"I have something I need to say." His facial expression betrayed no response, so she continued. "Can we go in your office?"  
  
Once again, he said nothing, but reached over to push the door open; she slipped in underneath his outstretched arm and tried her best to hide from his wrath in the far corner of the room, between the bookshelves. Her heart fell when he, upon entering the room, did not sit at his desk chair as she had anticipated; he shut the door firmly and stood directly in front of it. She had no method of escape.  
  
"Go on." He looked at her expectantly.  
  
Now that she was in the perfect position to say it, she could not find the right words; she stood there for a moment, thinking, before she was able to so much as open her mouth. "I—I think there is something that you deserve to know," she began, avoiding his eyes. "I realize that this isn't going to make you thrilled, but still…"  
  
"You never know," he quipped. His voice was cold and mocking. Why did she like him?  
  
Now she was more confident; if she gave the words room to flow, they would come with ease. "In class a month or so ago, when we were doing the trails with Veritaserum and you gave a dose to Lavender, things got a little…out of hand." This was sounding good. "She made a joke about my, ah, reading habits, and you said something to me that I haven't been able to forget." She glanced up hopefully. Was he remembering?  
  
"As I recall," he remarked, "my words to you were, 'And that, Miss Granger, is the truth.' Am I correct?"  
  
"Yes. And you laughed." It was her turn to search his face for some sign of realization, but it was, as usual, an emotionless mask.  
  
"Do you mean to tell me that you were insulted?" His eyes were fairly dancing now, but whether with astonishment or with malice, she could not discern. "I have to admit, Miss Granger, I did not think you could be so easily hurt."  
  
"I'm not insulted," she snapped, and the ebony eyes flashed angrily. "Now would you let me finish?"  
  
The laughter had abandoned his composure; her tone was bordering on insubordinate. "Fine. Continue."  
  
"Your laugh surprised me; I didn't expect that you laughed at anything. Then, when I came for detention, you were…teasing me."  
  
"Absolutely not," he protested half-heartedly. "It was you who instigated the wordplay, Miss Granger."  
  
"That's a lie," she hissed back. "You reciprocated."  
  
"What has that to do with anything?" Judging by his intense but calm stance, his interest was not in arguing with her.  
  
"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "That's just it! I can't think! You may not believe me, but it's all your fault! And then, when I returned Gollum a few weeks ago, you laughed at me again, and everything you said about us having more in common than I expected"—the look in his eyes was strange now, almost expectant—"made me start wondering."  
  
"And…?" The eyes held anticipation now, and she had an increasing premonition that he knew what she was struggling so vainly to communicate.  
  
"And I've come to a conclusion." There was no easy way to admit how she felt, so, she realized, she might as well just spit it out.  
  
"Which is?" He moved a step closer.  
  
"I like you"—tears filled her eyes—"and I think you should know that."  
  
He was silent, pensive, but still watching her closely; she could see his gaze taking in the tears that filled her own eyes and the way she fidgeted with the sleeves of her robe. When he spoke again, his voice was not mocking, but solemn. "I have never, Miss Granger, in all my years at Hogwarts, had a young woman admit to having a crush on me." A tear began to roll down her cheek. "So you will understand if I am not overly emotional; I am, however, flattered, though I may not openly show it."  
  
Really? He hid his emotions well. He did not look any different than he had moments before, while scorning her for being thin-skinned, except for maybe that strange look in his eyes.  
  
"I have nothing against you, Miss Granger. Quite honestly, I am shocked that you could feel that way about me. I had imagined you would, once you reached the age, lust after someone more…exciting. Not an intellectual such as myself."  
  
He watched her closely for a reaction, and she shrugged. "I'm an intellectual too."  
  
"I agree. But I was always of the opinion that, more often than not, opposites attract."  
  
"Not always," she whispered, and it struck him hard; he blinked and turned away for a moment. Pacing back and forth in front of his desk, he appeared to be deep in thought.  
  
"I am not able to show emotion, Miss Granger." His voice was steeled, as were his words. "I am not kind, or gentle; nor am I particularly romantic." That remark elicited a smile from her. "And you, of all people, should understand that a relationship between a student and a teacher is, to put it frankly, wrong. Were we in a different situation, then perhaps things could turn out differently."  
  
He realized only seconds too late the full meaning of the words he had just spoken. Hermione, judging by her widening eyes, was just beginning to understand it as well. '…perhaps things could turn out differently.' It was their ages and, thus, their respective positions that stood in the way, not his feelings. Could that be true?  
  
"Do you mean"—her voice was earnest—"that if it were not for me being a student and you a teacher, you could like me?"  
  
He sighed, and bowed his head for a moment, as though mentally exhausted by their discussion; nothing was coming about the way he had wanted it to. The problem was not his words; the problem was that she was not misinterpreting them the way she was supposed to. The girl was too damn smart; she understood exactly what he was saying, and he could not shield himself through words.  
  
"You are a compassionate, intelligent, and lovely young woman, Miss Granger, but there can be nothing between us. You know that, and I know that; regardless of what we feel, we need to abide by what we know."  
  
"I hate rules!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I've been following rules my entire life and where has it gotten me? Nowhere I have wanted to go!" Her pacing was bringing her closer toward him, and he had to resist the urge to step even farther forward. He forced himself to step back, maintaining a respectable—and safe—distance between the two of them. She noticed; but she also noticed that he seemed torn, and smiled in grim satisfaction. His conscience was eating away at him in the same way her own was her.  
  
"I think perhaps you should leave, Miss Granger." He would not smile, nor extend a friendly hand; he remained cool and distant to the bitter end. "The tension in this room has reached a potentially dangerous level."  
  
She nodded knowingly, and walked toward the door. Neither understood what happened in the next second; only that, as she approached him, she did not pass, but turned to face him for only a split second. Their eyes met, barely inches away, and the next thing both were aware of, they had been kissing.  
  
Hermione pulled away from him, gasping for air, eyes wide with shock. He cringed at realizing what he had done, and sank miserably into his desk chair. Passion had overruled reason in their minds for only a brief point in time, and yet it had the power to alter their lives forever.  
  
"This changes everything," she whispered, looking at him. But when he raised his head and looked up, she thought for a moment she was staring into the face of a completely different man. She realized then that she was seeing into him, glimpsing the ravaged soul that lived within. He had given into temptation, betrayed himself and disappointed himself for yet another time. He would take this, yet another reason to hate himself and what he had become, even harder than she; his already vengeful conscience would use it as further ammunition against him. She longed to put her arms around him, try to comfort him, as a woman should her lover, but knew that she had caused trouble enough.  
  
Hermione left him in his office, and walked gradually back to the Gryffindor common room. She had no idea what the next day would bring—whether he would accept what he felt and no longer be plagued by guilt, or give her the cold shoulder and avoid her completely. Sibyll Trelawney herself could not have predicted the outcome; but there was a feeling of foreboding, deep in the pit of her stomach, that their path was now going to become a much longer—and much more difficult—one to travel. 


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: A decent first kiss, or a complete disaster? What did you think?  
  
Inescapable Chapter Six  
  
There was little incentive for Hermione to sleep that night, other than the promise of escape from her agonizing thoughts. Yet three days remained before the majority of the student body would return from their lengthy vacation to once again fill the Hogwarts corridors; and until then, there was no doubt in her mind, she would run into Snape multiple times.  
  
What would he do? The possibility was always there that he would admit to Dumbledore their indiscretion, though it would mean severe repercussions for himself in order to punish her. But she could not help but think that such a vindictive motion would be too much, even for him. He had to realize that what had passed between them was not entirely her fault; even if she had initiated, he had reciprocated. There were two distinct sides to that particular story.  
  
Envious visualizations filled her mind when she heard the squeak of springs from Ginny's bed, located within the adjacent chamber. That bed had always proven a problem for Ginny, who had somehow developed the luck to be cursed with its ownership; it often awoke light sleepers, many of whom would then proceed to hurl outraged pillows in Ginny's direction. Hermione heaved a sigh and smiled with just the slightest touch of amusement. Ginny would by now have delved deep into dreamland, albeit haunted by squealing springs. She was not wondering what fate awaited her now that she had kissed-kissed, if it was even believable-a teacher. Hermione did her best to cry herself to sleep; it would not work.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny arrived in Hermione's dormitory room the next morning and woke Hermione herself; she shook her firmly by the shoulders until Hermione roused from her fitful sleep and questioned Ginny through blurred eyes. Ginny's face was grim and set as she dragged clothes out and tossed them at her friend.  
  
"What are you"-a tired yawn-"doing here?" Hermione rubbed sleep from her eyes and pulled aside the drapes to glance at the grounds. It was relatively early for Ginny to be up and moving.  
  
"Get up," the other girl said simply. "We're going to breakfast."  
  
"We're eating breakfast with the teachers," Hermione reminded her, taking her time as she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and planted them on the floor. They felt unsteady, and she did not want to chance standing up. Come to think of it, she wanted to rebury herself and die.  
  
"You're not." Hermione's head swiveled sharply and she pierced Ginny with her look.  
  
"What the hell do you mean, I'm not?" Her tone was beyond indignant; she did not enjoy being told what she would and would not do.  
  
"I'm not letting you eat with the teachers. Not after what happened last night."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione snapped, grabbing her hairbrush and running it through her hair roughly, yanking out loose strands and looking at them with disgust.  
  
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You promised you wouldn't do anything!" Ginny hissed, glancing nervously at the doorway; she had never been fond of Hogwarts' lack of privacy, and found herself aggravated now moreso than ever before.  
  
"Who said I did anything?" It was entirely a lie; no one could possibly have told Ginny what had happened, unless Gollum had become suddenly very talkative-and bilingual.  
  
"I don't need to be told because I know you did. You disappeared right after we left the dinner table and didn't come back in for a good hour. I don't want to know what happened, Hermione, and I doubt you want to tell me. But I don't believe you for a second if you say that nothing happened."  
  
Hermione was silent; her eyes spoke volumes more than she could have articulated.  
  
Ginny rose slowly and pulled on her sweater. She planted herself firmly in the center of the room and refused to move. Hermione, resigning herself to the company of a private, unshakable chaperone, went to wash her face and dress. When she returned, Ginny had not moved from her spot. She eyed Hermione's simple khakis and sweater like a parent would and, deciding they were apparently appropriate, led the way down the stairs and out of the portrait hole.  
  
Naturally, the hallways were empty. No one else was early enough a riser- and idiotic enough-to be out that early on the day after Christmas. Ginny made her way toward the kitchens and, upon entering, proceeded to tell the house-elves that Hermione wasn't feeling very well and would require a special breakfast-plain toast and jam, not the heavier fare they would serve to later-to comply with her stomach. The house-elves obliged most happily, and before long Hermione was munching on dry toast, having foregone the blackberry jam she most despised. She did not like it, but it was all she was going to get.  
  
They passed by Gollum's Balcony, as Hermione had begun to call it to herself, and she felt a pang of longing. Even if Snape despised her, she would not have minded seeing his pet again. Gollum, besides reminding her of him, had made her feel welcome and worthwhile in a way that even Ginny didn't. Perhaps that was the beauty in all animals: they passed no judgment.  
  
It was Fate's cruel sense of humor that morning that led them to intercept Snape as he came upstairs from the dungeons, heading toward the Great Hall to speak with the Headmaster. He had planned to address not what passed between himself and Hermione, but a completely different subject. Seeing her, however, brought it all flooding back into his mind, and he had to step deliberately and carefully on the stairs to ensure he did not trip. He could not take his eyes off her; she looked horrible, pale and sickly, and he knew it was entirely his fault. Just what his conscience needed-more reason to eat away at him.  
  
"Good morning, Professor," Ginny rattled off with feigned pleasantness.  
  
He did not return the greeting. "You two are up unusually early for a holiday. To where are you going?"  
  
"Hermione isn't feeling well," Ginny said slowly, gauging Snape's reaction; something flashed in his eyes, but did not show on his face. "We got her some toast from the kitchens, and now we're going back to our common room. She needs sleep."  
  
"I quite agree." He looked at Hermione's puffy eyes and bloodless pallor again, and then back at Ginny. "See that she is taken care of." He did not need to add what it would mean to him if Hermione were lost; she could, somehow, read it on his face. It made her flush slightly, bringing some color to her cheeks, but it was too late for him to notice for he had already swept off, leaving her speechless and Ginny suspicious.  
  
"I swear you two can read each other's minds," she grumbled, and pushed Hermione in front of her so as to keep a better eye on her friend's location. "Back to the common room."  
  
"Yes, Mother." Ginny did not smile.  
  
* * *  
  
Her mind racing as they approached the portrait hole, Hermione searched for a way to elude Ginny. She had to speak to Snape, even for just a moment; things had to be reconciled, or she would never be able to survive the remainder of the year in his classroom. She refused to let her grade suffer because of a crush, a few intimate conversations, and one kiss. That was ridiculous, and she would not allow it of herself.  
  
She could conceive of only one way to take Ginny's mind off the mission at hand-Harry. Only Harry could completely fill Ginny's thoughts within a matter of milliseconds and compel them to the point where she would be oblivious to Hermione's exit. Mercifully, Harry and Ron were awake when they scrambled back in, sitting in front of the fireplace eating Mrs. Weasley's homemade toffee.  
  
"I'm going to put my sweater away," Ginny informed her; she was flushed slightly by the heat in the castle and headed off toward her room. Hermione snatched her only chance and threw herself down on the floor in front of Harry. He stopped in mid-chew and looked up at her, confused.  
  
"Harry. Listen to me. You have to distract Ginny."  
  
"Wha?" He could not speak properly, for his mouth was stuck together with the toffee. Ron, also intrigued, eyed the two of them.  
  
"You have to distract Ginny. I need to leave, and she'll follow me if you don't do something."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I can't tell you right now"-Ginny's footsteps were coming back down the stairs-"just do it!"  
  
"I'm back." Ginny appraised the situation as though expecting to find Hermione had defied the Hogwarts laws of physics and Disapparated. "What're you talking about?"  
  
"Hey Ginny, I have something to ask you." Harry set his toffee aside and motioned for Ginny to sit next to him. Her eyes grew wide and color crept into her cheeks. "That okay?"  
  
"Y-Yeah, sure." She approached clumsily and sat down near him, her face aglow with expectation. Harry, Hermione could tell, was searching for the right topic to pique Ginny's interest.  
  
"It's about Bill's wedding-you know, the party?"  
  
"Yeah." Hermione rose to her feet and took a few steps back.  
  
"Well"-Harry glanced up involuntarily, noticing Hermione's slight progress- "Ron was saying how your mum was probably going to throw the reception, and I was thinking.well, wondering, actually.. There's probably going to be a big party, and-and dancing, right?"  
  
Ginny could not speak. Her hands were folded together, the knuckles white with tension.  
  
"I know this is probably a bit early to ask you, and I know you probably- have someone else you want to go with."  
  
Hermione opened the portrait hole door.  
  
".but if people go as couples, and you have no one to go with, would you go with me?" He tried to make his green eyes as irresistible as possible and Ginny absolutely melted for him.  
  
"I'd love to!" she whispered hoarsely.  
  
It was the last thing Hermione heard distinctively before the portrait swung shut, but she could still make out their voices from within the room, Ginny's singsong tones and Harry's deeper ones. Her footsteps were deliberately short and silent as she made her way down the halls and skirted the Great Hall for the dungeons. She peeked inside for only a moment; Snape was not to be found. His office, she thought frantically, and increased her pace.  
  
She had turned a corner when hands landed on her shoulders and she was forced roughly against the wall. She tried to scream, but his hand covered her mouth. "Quiet," he hissed, and she relinquished her resistance. His grip on her face lessened, and his hand fell away all together; but the other remained on her shoulder, holding her firmly against the wall.  
  
"You and I have to speak," he whispered, his face inches from hers, "and you know it." He removed his hand from her shoulder and she relaxed slightly.  
  
"About what?" she feigned innocently. He fought the sneer that threatened to cross his face and growled.  
  
"I am not letting you go until you talk to me, Hermione." She shivered slightly at hearing him use her name for the first time. "Speak."  
  
There was only one thing she wanted to say, and while she ached to say it, she dreaded his inevitable reaction. "You may regret what happened," she told him solemnly, "but I don't."  
  
He stared at her for a moment, and then pulled away, beginning to pace. His eyes were closed as though he refused to see the truth though it presented itself in front of him; Hermione maintained her place against the cold stone wall and wished he had stayed near her; she was growing cold with the absence of their combined body heat.  
  
"You have no idea," he murmured, "what kind of trouble you have the potential to cause me."  
  
"What makes you think your situation is any worse than mine?" she demanded. "I stand as much chance as you to be released from the school, sent away. I have a mere half a year to finish school before I must begin searching for a job. How would a record of seducing teachers look on a job application?"  
  
"You should have thought of that before you kissed me."  
  
"You shouldn't have kissed me back." Glare met glare and both knew there was nothing more to say; neither regretted it, and neither would have taken it back.  
  
Snape seemed determined not to come within several feet of her, and she waited patiently for his self-control to diminish sufficiently. She was not going to be the one to initiate their second contact; if he was going to be involved, he was going to do his fair share. There was no reason for her to lose her chance at graduating if he did not also lose his position within the school.  
  
"Do you mean to tell me," he asked, his voice deep and echoing between the stone walls, "that you are willing to sacrifice your chance at graduating to be with me?" There was an incredulity to his voice that shocked her; it was as though he thought her insane for liking him.  
  
"If you are willing to risk your job."  
  
"I have done nothing right in my life, nothing noble." His face betrayed a self-hatred that elicited both surprise and pity from her; she was confused by her own emotional response to his demons. "And yet Dumbledore has given me everything. How would he feel-how would I feel-if I betrayed him yet another time?"  
  
"Horrible." She saw no point in denying it.  
  
"You say it so lightly." He leaned against the wall opposite her and studied what promised to be his downfall; Hermione Granger. Who would have thought? When she had arrived at Hogwarts six or so years ago, he had never imagined himself facing her in the hallway and discussing the possibility of a secret relationship. What had he become?  
  
"I don't know how much longer I can live with myself." He was staring down the hallway in the direction from which she had come, looking for something in the distance she was blind to. His eyes were still hard, impenetrable; she wondered if he was even able, after all these years, to put forth any other face to the world.  
  
"That's what I'm here for," she replied gently. His eyes moved, riveted on hers, and they stared at each other for a full minute.  
  
"I am incapable of human feeling."  
  
"Who says I'm any better?"  
  
"I have no means of showing emotion."  
  
"Then write it."  
  
"I'm utterly unromantic."  
  
"I'm in no position to judge." He smiled wryly and she felt herself warm; he could have a handsome smile if he would only let himself.  
  
"Very well," he whispered, beginning to roll up the sleeves of his robe on his left arm. "I have one further argument." She knew what was coming, but did not betray it. He pulled the sleeve up and lifted his hand, palm facing forward, so that she was faced with the grisly mark that scarred his forearm: the Dark Mark, Lord Voldemort's insignia, in all its dark glory, had been burned into his flesh. She was filled with a mixture of wonder and pity; wonder at his past life and pity for the pain she knew it must still cause him. But no disgust, no repulsion.  
  
"It's been said," she retorted, "that tattoos can be very sexy." He only stared back, and she wondered briefly if that was not the best thing for her to say; hearing such words from her own lips sounded strange and alien to her.  
  
"You are delusional if you can somehow convince yourself that this has the potential to work out." His voice was harsh and unforgiving, as though he were warning her; should the relationship have catastrophic consequences, the finger of accusation would point directly at her.  
  
"My delusions are few and small compared to yours," she countered, "and generally more grounded in reality." The slightest hint of a smile danced on his lips and she knew that he agreed.  
  
* * *  
  
Ginny's gaze drove daggers into Hermione when she returned to the common room, but Hermione hardly noticed; she wandered up to her room as though in a daze and lay down on her bed, pretending to sleep in order to gain privacy. She wanted nothing more than to relive the time in the hallway in her mind and dream about how much better things could yet become.  
  
They had broken down and admitted, though not verbally, that they could not deny any longer what had passed between them, and how it made them feel. That is, Hermione had admitted it; Snape had been silent, but when she looked up for his confession, he had nodded in agreement. It was enough for her, and so a relationship had been forged. And he had kissed her again, not long, but with passion. Their lack of time did not bother her; quantity did not necessarily take precedence over quality.  
  
When she wandered back downstairs for dinner, Ginny was waiting for her, along with the boys, at the portrait hole. Harry and Ron greeted her, though warily, and watched for her body language to betray just what she had been doing during her absence; Ginny spoke not a word to her. Dinner was uncomfortable, for Snape avoided talking to her and Ginny looked as though she longed to murder someone-anyone-nearby.  
  
Dumbledore once again inquired after Hermione's state of health, remarking that she still looked slightly pale.  
  
"Oh, Hermione had a stressful afternoon," Ginny spoke up, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "She may be a bit tired."  
  
Snape just managed to stop himself from dropping his fork as he looked up in alarm and anger at Hermione. She could not acknowledge him in front of the others, and realized with a sigh that she would have to explain the situation to him later. They had agreed to meet on Gollum's Balcony in the evening; this would take some courage. He was not going to be pleased.  
  
Harry and Ron somehow contained their curiosity and remained silent. They glanced at Hermione, back toward Ginny, and then to Hermione again; they could sense that something was amiss between the two girls. Hermione noticed with dismay that once or twice their glances flicked toward Snape. There was a dangerous chance that they would put the pieces of the puzzle together and determine what was going on. She was not sure how she could possibly handle that.  
  
Dumbledore seemed laid-back, as always, and flashed a disarming smile at Hermione. "Get plenty of sleep," he told her, "and I imagine you should feel better come tomorrow morning. If not, feel free to see Madam Pomfrey; or perhaps Severus would have a potion that might make you feel better." He raised an eyebrow and turned to the Potions master, who nodded stiffly. Dumbledore gave Hermione a confident nod of his head and turned his attentions toward Professor McGonagall.  
  
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; Snape did not betray his own relief openly, but she could see his body relax just slightly. He was every bit as intimated by their situation as she, and no doubt he felt the stress even more, being the adult of the situation.  
  
Ginny ate in sullen silence, and even managed to look upset with Harry. Hermione felt a stab of guilt when she realized that she had turned Ginny against Harry; Ginny would have recognized by now that Harry, sincere or not about his offer, had put it forth at the time Hermione had asked him to do so in order to allow her to escape. While she was probably a bundle of nerves inside, knowing that she would be dancing with Harry, her external appearance was one of outrage and festering anger.  
  
When dinner ended, they marched upstairs in a straight line, saying nothing; Ron and Harry were trying to feel, through the tension in the air, what the problem was; Ginny was now officially giving Hermione the cold shoulder and the silent treatment. Hermione wanted to believe that Ginny was merely being immature, but she knew deep down that she deserved every ounce of Ginny's cruel retaliation; she had only been trying to help.  
  
The boys settled down to play a half-hearted game of wizard's chess and  
  
Ginny stalked up to her bedroom without saying goodnight. When Hermione settled down next to the boys to calm herself before her rendezvous with Snape, they dropped their chess figures and gave her their undivided attention, expecting an explanation. She was understandably reluctant to offer one.  
  
"What?" she asked wearily, seeing the hungry looks on their faces.  
  
"What's going on?" Harry queried. "You and Ginny are acting like enemies suddenly, and I want to know why I had to help you escape her."  
  
"She was trying to be my chaperone," Hermione said evasively, wondering how to appease their curiosity without rousing further-possibly hazardous- questions. "She thinks I'm sneaking off to do something against the rules and she was trying to keep me 'under control.' " She giggled for an added measure of reassurance.  
  
"Are you doing something against the rules?" Ron asked slyly, arching an eyebrow. Hermione gave him a 'drop dead' look and shook her head.  
  
"I would never do that." A lie; another stab of guilt pierced her gut.  
  
"I didn't think so," Ron conceded, and he reached forward to make a move on the chessboard. He captured one of Harry's pieces, eliciting a frustrated expletive from Harry, and leaned back again, thoroughly contented. Harry scrutinized the board and frowned, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He never seemed to defeat Ron at chess.  
  
Hermione yawned on the outside and tried to calm her racing mind on the inside. It was nearly time to leave, and the boys were showing no intent to retire to bed for the night. There was no logical reason for her to leave the common room again, and in light of their recent conversation, they would become incredibly skeptical of any but the most conceivable reasons.  
  
"Oh no!" She tried to sound distraught. "I forgot-" She rose from her seat and walked quickly toward the portrait hole, waiting for their oncoming assault.  
  
"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, forgetting the game. "Where are you going?"  
  
"I forgot to ask McGonagall something," she said, opening the portrait.  
  
"About what? It's the holidays!"  
  
"I know, but I need plenty of time to prepare for it; it's about my course schedule, and I really need the answer as soon as possible."  
  
They did indeed look skeptical. "What extra work are you trying to take on now?" Ron grumbled, looking as though he thought she was insane. Hermione had to bite back a smile; he worried that she would overtax herself, but he would never admit it.  
  
"Nothing significant, just some extra exams that might help me when it comes time to approach the Ministry about a job."  
  
"You're thinking about that already?" The boys exchanged looks; now she had them wondering about their own lives, and-to her advantage-forgetting that she was leaving.  
  
"Yeah. I should be back in awhile. See you guys tomorrow, if you're in bed when I return." She swung her legs out and they called goodbye, then started wondering aloud to one another about their own futures. She had certainly picked a successful topic; that would keep them occupied for plenty of time.  
  
Wondering if the Invisibility Cloak would have been a logical precaution, Hermione stepped cautiously down the halls. Walking off to meet him felt strange and exciting; she knew there was nothing honest or noble in such an action, but had succeeded in banishing that particular thought from her brain. She preferred to think that, for the first time in her seventeen years, Hermione Granger 'had a life.'  
  
It was Gollum, not Snape, who met Hermione farther down the hallways, slithering along slowly to allow her to keep up with the surprisingly rapid movement of which the serpent was capable. Hermione giggled softly; there was something absurd about the fact that a snake, a creature with which she was incapable of initiating any communication, was guiding her. Gollum seemed to sense her fear, however, and for the most part, stayed in the shadows as they made their way along.  
  
She perceived no sounds; the absence of noise was an entirely new sensation for Hermione. She wondered where Snape was, and whether or not it was this quiet there; she had never truly considered just what a relationship would mean. Could they possibly sit in silence with each other, and be comfortable? Somehow, her anxious mind imagined a different scenario, one of awkward silence and heated thoughts.  
  
The balcony came into view eventually; Gollum abandoned the corridor and slipped into the soft darkness, through which Hermione could not see. He was in there, somewhere, and he could greet her with either a kiss or a knife in the chest; she would never know, with him.  
  
He was there, weapons-free, leaning against the edge of the railing and staring off into the night sky. At first, he failed to notice her approach; she stood beyond him for a moment, observing in a new light. Her abrupt change in feelings for and about him brought to the surface new thoughts and realizations. He had lived a difficult life, she knew now, one filled with constant disappointments and reasons aplenty of abhor himself and the man he had become.  
  
It was almost unbelievable that he should detest himself; she saw, true, that he had as many faults as any other. Becoming a Death Eater certainly did not grace one's personal record with worthwhile accomplishments, and his entire attitude toward society was one lacking in skill and appreciation for others. Nevertheless, she could see a passion and a ferocious intelligence that begged-demanded-to be seen, heard and acknowledged. Why he could not do so himself, she would never know.  
  
"Hello." He jumped visibly in the moonlight and turned; he did not smile upon seeing her, but as usual, his emotions were just slightly more recognizable through his eyes. She found her own drawn to his, and had trouble moving them away when his stare became uncomfortable.  
  
"You made it," he remarked simply. "I was beginning to wonder."  
  
"But not to worry?" she surmised.  
  
"Of course not. You are perfectly capable of caring for yourself, I am sure." She had to grin; no one but he could make such a comment sound sincere; her parents tried with all their hearts to assure her of their faith in her, but to no avail. She could read between the lines.  
  
"I'm sorry about what happened during dinner today." She joined him in leaning against the railing and searched his face for some sign of comprehension.  
  
"I assume you are referring to the incident with Ginny Weasley?" She nodded. "I admit I expected you familiarized her with your feelings long ago; I expected such a reaction." Now he did smile, but grimly. "It is not uncommon, you understand."  
  
"No." He looked up. "I don't. What I do understand, however, is that you have major self-esteem issues."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" He looked amused, and was leaning sideways against the railing now, one arm outstretched, his fingers drumming in silent rhythm. The emotional part of her was preoccupied by the fact that he was so close to her; if she had dared, she could have reached out and touched him. She tried to think of the darkness as a shield and regain her composure.  
  
"I can't understand why you think so poorly of yourself. You have no reason to, so why do you do it?"  
  
"Fishing for compliments," he quipped sarcastically, though he did not expect her to find him at all funny. "I did not invite you here for psychoanalysis, Miss Granger."  
  
She missed the sound of "Hermione" in his deep, riveting tones; he was pulling away from her slightly.  
  
"Then why did you invite me?"  
  
"I don't know." The reply was quick and sincere, and one with which she could identify. She wasn't even sure why she had come, or how she had managed to toss aside seventeen years' worth of morals to meet with a teacher in the dead of night with such intents. But all was forgotten when he leaned forward to kiss her, and the wonderings were suspended for a while. 


	7. Chapter 7

Inescapable  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
  
  
Hermione returned to the common room far past midnight. They had talked for hours, but just what their conversation had regarded, she was not sure she remembered; the entire evening seemed a blur of a film flashing through her mind that offered no definite promise. Her only certainty lay in her emotions, which were by then so jumbled that she felt intoxicated and otherworldly. A girl's first kisses were not something she was soon to forget; when those kisses came from her teacher—and a previously hated one, at that—there was much for her to consider.  
  
Parvati stirred just slightly as she opened the door to the room and slipped inside, shutting it as quietly as she could manage. There was no time or chance for her to put on her pajamas, so she refrained from undressing and simply pulled off her robes so she could crawl beneath the covers in her skirt and blouse.  
  
The Christmas holidays were coming to an end rapidly, and Hermione had given no thought to the future. It would be interesting, to say the least, to see how the two of them would be able to muster up the indifference to at least put on a display of typical classroom behavior. She had no doubts that it would require an award-worthy performance to keep from arousing the suspicions of her classmates. Oddly enough, Harry and Ron seemed completely oblivious; in fact, they were, it was beginning to seem, going to be the easiest ones to fool. Ironic, then, that they were her best friends; they had no ability to read between the lines of her behavior.  
  
Ginny, though—that was entirely another matter. Hermione knew she had been acting foolhardy and even downright childish toward her friend, but her actions in no way validated Ginny's retaliation. She had been insensitive and cruel, and her deliberate provocation at the dinner table was uncalled for and even undeserved. Hermione had half a mind to confront Ginny and demand that she show some maturity, but knew that it would seem highly hypocritical coming from a student who was shattering castle rules to consort with a teacher.  
  
* * *  
  
As the Christmas holidays ended, Hermione realized that she had no reason to worry about a confrontation with Ginny. It seemed clear that her friend did not intend to grace Hermione with her presence; in fact, Ginny was avoiding her with amazing accuracy. She had no chances to speak with Ginny during the following days. The slightest advance, whether verbal or physical, elicited from Ginny a glare worthy of Snape's own, and capable of freezing anyone in their tracks.  
  
Harry and Ron treated her normally, but they noticed the distinct chance in Ginny's behavior toward her, and were puzzled. "What's going on with you and Ginny?" Harry asked her one evening, and Hermione just shrugged. The two boys had by now forgotten her urgent errand, and proceeded to live their normal daily lives and spare no thoughts for her. Their conversations revolved around Quidditch, Divination homework, and summer plans, not speculations about her love life.  
  
"You really should talk to Ginny," Ron informed her matter-of-factly; it was the first school day after the Christmas holidays, and they were making their way purposefully down to the dungeons for Potions class. Hermione's mind was preoccupied with wondering how she and Snape were to manage being in the same classroom and remain rational toward each other. Ron's comment was disconcerting.  
  
"I—I know," she admitted, "but I think perhaps I should wait awhile. Ginny isn't ready to accept any apology yet. I'm afraid that offering one will only make her angrier."  
  
"I don't see why it should," Harry interjected with a frown. "She adores you, Hermione, you know that. She's like your best friend."  
  
"You two are my best friends." She pulled open the door of the Potions classroom and prepared for their conversation to end abruptly; it always did when they were confronted with Snape's presence in the same room.  
  
But Harry continued, driven. "It isn't going to make her angry! Besides, the longer you let this go on, it's only going to get worse. Whatever's going on between you two isn't worth losing a friendship."  
  
She had not thought of that. Her bag slipped absently from her shoulder and hit the desk with a resounding thud; Snape looked over from his position in front of the blackboard, writing the day's potion for note-taking, and their eyes met ever so briefly. She could see him taking in the situation with his characteristic scrutiny and knew that he would be listening intently to their every word.  
  
"Our friendship isn't going to end," she retorted. "It's just a fight. She'll get over it"  
  
"Maybe she isn't the one who needs to get over it," Harry replied gently, and Hermione looked up as though struck. She had flinched slightly and was now beginning to look assaulted.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"You're being just as immature as she is."  
  
Hermione refused to dignify him with a comeback of her own and instead flopped down into her chair and searched through her bag for a quill. Her hair fell in front of her face, shielding her eyes from view, and the boys could not discern what expression covered her face. Harry sighed and Ron shook his head disbelievingly. They, too, sat down, and class commenced.  
  
Snape proceeded to snap the day's directions, and the class obeyed immediately. Hermione found herself wondering whether his apparent cruelty in the classroom was an aspect of his true personality, or simply his way of ensuring that order prevailed in his classes. She liked to think that he was not the kind of person to act so horrendously toward everyone, but everything about his appearance and general manner begged to differ. It was comical, almost, that she could fall in love with someone who seemed like such an antisocial human being.  
  
But the term "love" was not yet worthy of her feelings. She guarded her emotions jealously and refused to label them until she was absolutely certain of their true nature. Hermione saw daily that carelessly flaunting emotions could have detrimental effects on girls' lives. Parvati and Dean were having troubles, and Parvati wailed to herself and everyone who would listen about how much she loved him still. Hermione was inclined to think that professing her "love" was merely Parvati's way of gaining and keeping the attention of the others students, and she was not going to allow herself to stoop to Parvati's level.  
  
"Miss Granger." Snape was observing her actions from the front of the room, a maliciously evil tone in his voice. "You are daydreaming again, in lieu of performing your duties in this classroom. Ten points from Gryffindor."  
  
Neville shot Hermione a confused look to oppose the irritated ones coming from Lavender and Parvati across the room. She mumbled an apology and hurried about creating her potion, allowing herself only momentary relapses into daydreaming when time allowed and Snape was not observing her. He began to stride up and down the aisles, watching the students' work. His footfalls drew him steadily closer to her cauldron, and she could feel the heat as her body temperature rose several degrees. What was he going to do? Her hands were shaking slightly.  
  
And as he paused next to her, he noticed this: the slight tremble of her fingertips as she methodically and precisely measured out ingredients. Spoons clattered quietly against containers when she dipped them in to withdraw substances, and he stood by her for nearly a full minute. Just as Neville was looking up in wonder at the professor, he moved languidly away and progressed to the next desk. Hermione exhaled sharply and allowed herself to stop for a moment.  
  
"You okay?" Neville asked, eyebrows furrowed. "You look like you have a fever or something."  
  
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, feeling the slight sheen of nervous perspiration that had begun to appear there. "I'm okay," she assured him, rolling up her sleeves. "Just a little warm, that's all."  
  
"'Kay." He turned away and resumed his own work.  
  
At the front of the room, Snape was standing in front of the blackboard, arms crossed and eyes dark and malevolent as ever. His expression was one of burdened superiority, but it shifted visibly when Hermione looked up at him. She did not smile, nor give any indication that she wanted to greet him; but he nodded at her, almost imperceptibly, and the smile made its way to her eyes. He watched as they sparkled with pleasure, and then returned their gaze to her work with slight embarrassment. It amused him that after hours of talking and several kisses, she was still embarrassed to be caught staring at him.  
  
She never took notice of Harry and Ron's actions throughout the course of Potions, but they were eyeing her curiously. Her own actions lacked their customary confidence and sharpness; she was slower and seemed to be double- checking her ever move, whereas typically she would have had utter assurance in herself that what she was doing was correct and accurate. Even Neville seemed to notice that something was amiss with Hermione; he looked up once to ask her if she was all right, saying that she appeared to be ill.  
  
She seemed to hold herself in check well, however, and no further points were deducted from Gryffindor after the initial ten at the beginning of the class. It was as though her attention span had returned, but her fingers gained an inexplicable clumsiness. Hermione showed no disappointment in her actions, but kept her head bent and her expression determined as she finished her assignment. If she herself betrayed no sign of noticing a difference in her own behavior, perhaps they should not worry.  
  
Nevertheless, something told Harry he should be concerned, and while they never spoke, Ron, he sensed, shared his opinion completely. As he stirred his potion, he would watch the back of Hermione's head, lowered in the direction of her work, with a look of pained wondering on his face. Harry had suspected more often than once that Ron felt something for Hermione beyond platonic friendship, and the expression on Ron's face only fed the fires of his speculation.  
  
* * *  
  
Parvati sauntered into the Great Hall with a look of triumph across her lovely features, and Hermione realized with a sinking heart that she and Dean had reconciled their differences and were once again "in love." As though love was something to be fallen out of, she thought skeptically, and could not help but feel a slight disdain toward Parvati. There was an obvious difference in maturity when one compared the ways in which Parvati and Hermione handled their feelings for Dean and Snape, respectively. But Hermione knew that Parvati's situation was socially and morally acceptable, and her own was not; therefore, she was in no position to judge.  
  
"We've made up!" she gushed with girlish enthusiasm as she slid into her seat across from Hermione. "Oh, he was so sweet about it—he told me he couldn't stand fighting with me and he wanted to get back together more than anything."  
  
Hermione managed a smile. "That was kind."  
  
Parvati nodded, her face positively aglow. She radiated love and beauty like a newly married bride. "Then you think it was really right for me to agree to make up with him?"  
  
"Absolutely," Hermione affirmed. "He obviously cares for you very much."  
  
"I know he does," the other girl insisted with an air of knowledge and confidence Hermione envied. "He told me." Here she blushed, and covered her embarrassment by reaching for the tureen of soup and ladling some out for herself. Hermione watched as Parvati pushed her spoon through the soup with industry, but ate nothing. She was too excited to eat.  
  
Hermione could not blame her, knowing that she would act the same way in Parvati's shoes. She looked up at the teacher's table toward Snape; his gaze was far in the distance, on something she could not, and probably never would, see. There were times when she wondered if there wasn't something he concealed from everyone else that would explain his strange demeanor. She made a mental note to try to pry it from him—tactfully, of course, and without rousing his anger—later, when they had agreed to meet on Gollum's Balcony.  
  
She gathered from his words that their meetings were to become a nightly ritual. It seemed the best way to do it, because meeting more than once a day was dangerous, and meeting less than once a day was undesirable. Having been with him several times now, in the presence of what could have been an entirely different man who only shared Snape's characteristics, she wanted nothing more than to be with him every moment of the day. Whether or not it would become uncomfortable, and then unbearable, she could not guess; there was only one way to find out, and she longed to do it.  
  
"Hermione." She looked up and raised her eyebrows questioningly to meet Harry's green eyes. "Where's Ginny?"  
  
She blinked. Where was Ginny, for that matter? Her usual seat was empty and a void remained between Harry and Parvati. Ron, mouthed too full of mashed potatoes to make known his agreement verbally, nodded his head and motioned toward Ginny's empty place.  
  
This time, Hermione did not shrug. "I don't know. Did she mention a previous engagement to either of you?"  
  
"Ginny?" Ron scoffed. "What would she be doing? All her friends are here."  
  
"I know, but maybe they had planned on being elsewhere earlier. Just because she isn't here doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong."  
  
"But there could be," Harry prodded. Hermione was deeply touched by his concern for Ginny, so much an admirer of his.  
  
"Yes, there could. Maybe I should go look for her…" She turned in her seat to scan the rest of the Great Hall for Ginny's blazing hair, but found nothing. "She isn't here, that's for sure."  
  
As she turned back, Snape cast her a questioning look from the teacher's table; he could read the increasingly frantic expression on her face. She dared not smile at him, because Ron and Harry were watching her as they waited for her reply.  
  
"I'm going to go look," she decided, and placed her napkin down on the table. As she rose, recognition flashed in Snape's eyes and she had to shake her head faintly; he would have followed her with his own exit.  
  
Hermione crossed the floor quickly and left the Great Hall. As she headed toward the Gryffindor common room, she could hear footsteps approaching her, the striking of the feet resounding through the halls. Ginny came into her view not two hundred feet away, and stopped when she saw Hermione. Then, as though rebuilding her shield, she resumed her resolute stride forward. As she and Hermione passed, Hermione stopped, but Ginny did not. She held out a hand, a white envelope pinched between two fingers. Hermione took it hesitantly and, with a flash of her eyes, Ginny was gone in the direction of the Great Hall.  
  
Hermione stood in the corridor for several minutes, debating whether she should return to the Great Hall. Undoubtedly, the note was of high priority, but she did not want Ginny to show up for dinner, only to have Ron and Harry begin to worry about her. She decided in the end that returning to the common room and letting Ron and Harry wonder was the lesser of the two evils. If she showed, Ginny would only regain her moody, brooding manner.  
  
Safely in the common room, she curled up beside the fireplace—a flick of her wand and a whisper placed warming flames next to her—and slit the top of the envelope with her fingers. Inside, she recognized parchment filled with Ginny's distinctive, stock-straight cursive that contrasted with her own slanted, flowing script. The letter was not lengthy, only about three- quarters of one page of parchment, but it was forthright and did not fail to make its point.  
  
'What you decide to do is up to you,' Ginny wrote, 'but I refuse to be an accomplice. If you want to see him, then that is your decision.' She went on to describe to Hermione that she felt alienated by Hermione's secretive behavior, and while she knew it was juvenile, she missed being a defining factor in Hermione's life.  
  
'I will still be your friend,' Ginny's writing informed her, 'but only if you promise me that you won't get angry when I try to help you. I know it sounds like a scolding mother, but I'm saying this because I don't really believe that you can love him.'  
  
That hurt, but Hermione knew that what Ginny felt should have no bearing over her own feelings toward Snape. Ginny finished the letter by saying that, while she had had plenty of time to herself in isolation to consider how she felt about being privy to Hermione' situation, she needed to be left alone in order to sort out just what was going on. Hermione nodded unconsciously as she read the letter; she recognized Ginny's feelings as being those of betrayal and denial, but wanting to help a friend. She appreciated that, and tried to overlook the stinging comment about her skepticism regarding the veracity of Hermione's feelings.  
  
She refolded the parchment and slipped it back into the envelope, which she placed in one of the inner pockets of her robes. From outside the common room, sounds of the students returning from dinner were audible to her ears. She was anxious to escape from the sight of the other students and make her way to Gollum's Balcony before it was too late.  
  
Slipping in with the other students moments later, she branched off into a dark corridor and waited, unseen and unsuspected, until the hallways had cleared. Then she headed in the opposite direction and half-walked, half- jogged her way down the stairs and beyond the castle entranceway toward the kitchens. She gave the portrait of the fruit bowl that contained the lively pear a passing glance before she slipped through the darkness and into the coolness of the night air surrounding Gollum's Balcony.  
  
He had not yet arrived, so she resumed his usual place by the far corner of the ledge to observe the night sky. It was cold, but not yet frigid; a light blanket of snow carpeted the Hogwarts grounds, bathed in the incandescent light cast by the waxing moon. She was struck subconsciously by the tranquility and beauty of the winter night, and wondered if it was the type of thing they could rejoice in together. She knew better now than to automatically assume Severus Snape could find no beauty, no warmth, in one of life's miracles.  
  
He arrived a few minutes later, but she did not turn around; she kept her eyes riveted on the striking landscape. He approached her slowly until she could feel him standing behind her, warm, solid, and comforting. She could not restrain a hidden smile when she turned and saw that he was visibly uncomfortable with the intimacy; but he was making an effort, and that touched her.  
  
"Hello." His voice was slightly hoarse in the cold air, making it even deeper and more resonant.  
  
Again, she smiled. "Hi."  
  
"Are you all right?" She could hardly discern his eyes from the black night enveloping them, and wondered if he looked as concerned as he sounded. It was undeniably a strange emotion, coming from him, but perhaps she would grow accustomed to it.  
  
"I'm fine. Are you referring to my leaving the Great Hall?"  
  
He nodded, and she could feel the slight change in the air. "You looked frightened."  
  
"Just nervous. Ginny wasn't there and we were wondering where she'd gone to." Their breath crystallized in the clear air and made clouds of vapor between them.  
  
"You found her, I assume?" The clouds had since passed beyond the moon and its rays had shifted, making his face visible in the stark light. Black orbs that were his eyes held nothing she could recognize, but the look was familiar in some instinctive way.  
  
Here, she grimaced. "Yes, but not without a price. She wrote me a note; it's almost bittersweet, actually. She wants to remain my friend, but refuses to be an 'accomplice,' so to speak."  
  
He chuckled. "That is perfectly understandable. She, unlike the two of us, can be rational in the face of rule breaking. You and I obviously lack the self-control."  
  
"Or the desire." He was silent then, and only watched her. When it became clear that his mood was too contemplative to warrant talking, she turned her back toward him and again faced the Hogwarts grounds. They stood that way for nearly ten minutes: she wondering, he thinking, and both admiring the savage beauty of winter.  
  
Finally, she could feel him move slightly, and sensed that he wanted to speak. "I have to thank you," he confessed, his voice distant. "You've given me back human emotions that I forgot I was capable of feeling."  
  
"I'm glad," she whispered back. "It's about time you remembered how to like someone."  
  
"Not just that," he continued, shaking his head. "Hope, fear, desire. I never imagined I could feel such things again."  
  
The words hit her harder than she had expected, but she shook them off in favor of appeasing her curiosity. "Whatever happened to you to make you think yourself incapable of human feeling?"  
  
She could actually feel him smile. "That," he replied, "is a long story. Perhaps you should sit down, if you are intent on hearing it."  
  
* * *  
  
His quarters were cozier than she remembered them; once he had started a fire in the fireplace and Gollum had emerged from her hole to curl up in Hermione's lap, things seemed homely and welcoming. She ignored the eerie sound of the wind, which had picked up since they'd retreated indoors, howling around the base of the castle and the snow that pounded against the single window in the ceiling.  
  
He had offered her tea, but her stomach was too jumbled to accept anything, so she declined politely and curled up in a chair across from him. They had not yet reached a point where she would have been comfortable sitting with or next to him, or leaning against him. She supposed, however, that it was entirely possible they would, someday, be so intimate; the thought was both strange and exciting.  
  
He watched Hermione as she stared into the fire, the glow casting auburn and blonde highlights into her thick, light brown hair. It had grown tame, he noticed, and instead of resembling a creature's nest as it once had, it hung in long, curly tendrils around her face and down her shoulders. The contours of her face and body were illuminated in the firelight; her face sculpted and beautiful, her body beneath her robes timid but strong in its figure and stance as she remained deep in thought. She was lovely; there was no doubt about it. What amazed him was that he could find himself attracted to a girl not yet eighteen years old; grown women were normally more to his taste.  
  
Hermione looked up expectantly, and found him watching her. Color crept into her cheeks, but looked like a mere flush from the heat of the fireplace. As he tried to find his voice, she shifted position in the chair to face him directly, with her hands clasped in her lap.  
  
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" he began, looking stern. "You have an acquaintance involved in this story, and I do not want to make you angry or uncomfortable."  
  
"I can handle it," she said with a giggle, amused by his concern. He shrugged slightly.  
  
"Very well. Yes, something did happen to me that made me…hesitant to believe in my ability to feel any deeper emotions for another person."  
  
"A woman?" she guessed. He could see in the expression on her face that she was completely sure of her speculation, and had probably thought long and hard on the subject before.  
  
"Yes, a woman."  
  
"May I guess who?"  
  
He looked surprise. "If you wish."  
  
"Harry's mother. Lily."  
  
There was nothing that could hide the look of blatant pain that crossed his face at the mere mention of Lily Potter's name. She felt at once triumphant and awful for causing such hurt to him. He was not the type of man to admit to his weaknesses, and she had unearthed one as simply as if it were the name of a young girl's secret crush. Clearly, he had thought himself stronger and more protected.  
  
"Yes." He turned his face back toward the fire and was silent for a minute. Hermione did not rush him; it was painful enough for him to simply admit the truth about his past with Mrs. James Potter, let alone elaborate.  
  
"She and I met at Hogwarts." He was attempting to make his voice void of any emotion, but its natural quality was that of deep, vivid expression. "We were together for almost three years before she left me for James Potter. She insisted she still loved me, just not in the same way as she did him."  
  
He leaned back in his chair, still staring at the fire. His eyes glowed red in the firelight that struck them straight on. "I look at Harry daily and I see them both. He has his father's hair, obviously, and increasingly resembles his father over his mother as he grows. But he has Lily's eyes; there can be no argument there."  
  
"Were her eyes green, like Harry's?" She had only briefly seen pictures of Lily Potter in the scrapbook Hagrid had given to Harry years ago. Never had she had the chance to study them carefully, to scrutinize any resemblance Harry bore to his parents, long gone from his life and his world.  
  
"As though they were cut from the same emerald," he murmured. He did not seem capable of meeting her eyes, but she did not begrudge it of him. There was no way for her to conceive the thoughts that had to be flitting across his mind then, but she would not for the world have invaded his privacy.  
  
The seconds crawled by as Hermione watched the enigmatic, cruel Professor Snape confront his demons and eventually conquer them. He was silent as he rose from his chair and offered her a hand. Helping her to her feet, he led her to the door and made it clear in his stance that she was to go.  
  
"You need to leave," he told her, and she was overly aware of his grip on her wrist. She understood then, and nodded; there were some bridges that were not yet meant to be crossed. She walked through the door and slowly up the stairs, knowing that he watched her retreating figure. When she reached the top of the staircase, she heard the gentle click of the door latching back into place. She glanced down at the skin on her wrist, wondering if it was on fire; a burning heat remained there until she fell into a deep sleep. 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I apologize for making many of you feel as though I am treating the characters incorrectly, considering their age, maturity level, etc. I will be the first to admit that I haven't the slightest idea what Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Ginny will be like in all aspects of their personality two years hence. But I AM trying my best; please believe me on that.  
  
Inescapable Chapter Eight  
  
It became obvious to Hermione within the weeks following her conversation with Snape that things had changed drastically. Ginny, for her part, was becoming increasingly civil with her, although a tension remained strung between them that she could neither loosen nor break. Harry and Ron sensed the strain between the two girls, and Hermione willingly gave them credit for being more perceptive than she had originally expected.  
  
She agreed one Saturday to go into Hogsmeade with the boys in the hopes that she could find a way to "clear the air," so to speak. They continued to watch her with suspicious eyes when she left the common room late every night; it was never after the set curfew, so as far as they knew, she was breaking no rules. Still, it was completely uncharacteristic of Hermione to leave her studying and dash off with wild abandon. She was going to have to find an explanation, or find another way to appease their questions.  
  
The road to Hogsmeade was covered in a thin layer of snow; the winter had been mild that year, tapering off now that it was February, and the air was unusually warm. Hermione was feeling slightly overheated in all her extra clothes, brought as a precaution, and slowly began shedding layers. By the time they were a half the way there, her coat, sweater, and cloak were slung over her arm and all three were feeling uncomfortably hot.  
  
Ron yawned sleepily and glanced over at Hermione. Her eyes were taking in the surroundings, and her skin was flushed from the heat. "Want me to carry something?" he offered. He had not dressed as heavily as she, and was carrying only his coat. She nodded gratefully and handed him her cloak, leaving her with only her sweater and coat.  
  
"Thank you." She gave him a small smile, which he returned. Harry coughed slightly and tried to hide his own smile; Ron was not offering simply out of kindness.  
  
Hermione's mind was strangely clear that day. Normally, she would have been preoccupied with thoughts about what Snape was doing right then, and both frightened an excited for the evening to arrive. Today, however, she was content to simply let her thoughts slip away and observe the lovely scenery. She appreciated the quiet, and was almost shocked by the boys' willingness to remain silent. They seemed to sense her gratitude, and did not speak.  
  
"You two are quiet," she remarked airily, flashing them a questioning look.  
  
Ron shrugged. "You looked like you were enjoying the silence."  
  
"I was, but now it's becoming creepy. What's going on?"  
  
Harry gave her an evil grin. "We're plotting our strategy for getting you to tell us what's going on with you."  
  
She feigned innocence and irritation. "What are you talking about? You've demanded numerous times that I admit something to you-and I have nothing to admit!"  
  
"You have to," Ron insisted, removing his coat and Hermione's cloak from his outstretched forearm and tossing them easily over his shoulder. The bulky vestments were hiding Harry's face from Hermione's view; she had to step ahead of them and look behind her to speak.  
  
"Who says I have to?"  
  
"Then what's wrong with you?"  
  
She rolled her eyes and kept walking. It was necessary for her to move much more rapidly than the two boys to keep up with their long strides; their long legs carried them much more easily than her shorter ones.  
  
"Slow down, please?" she requested, skipping forward to catch up with them. They obliged, and slowed their stride just slightly, allowing her to feel more relaxed and less rushed.  
  
"Thank you." Both were grinning now.  
  
"You're too short," Harry teased her. "You should have grown more."  
  
"Yeah," Ron chipped in, "you're always slowing us down, Hermione! What's wrong with you?" He nudged her playfully and she reached up to return the gesture with an affectionate punch on the shoulder. He did not flinch, and she growled; was she ever again going to be able to hurt them?  
  
"Dammit! Hold still!" She tried to punch him again, but Harry caught her by the wrists, and dragged her to the side. She could see Ron having trouble containing his laughter instead of collapsing on the ground.  
  
"Face it, Hermione," Harry said gently, green eyes twinkling with unleashed laughter. "You're just too weak to hurt us anymore."  
  
"Says who?" She stopped to face them squarely, hands on her hips. There had to be a way to hurt them. It was startling, actually, how much she was enjoying herself. Preoccupied with Quidditch or not, these were her best friends, and she felt a love for them deeper than any she had eve felt before. For the first time in nearly months, Hermione felt as though they were just normal friends, teasing each other and having fun. She missed the feeling, she realized with a pang of regret. Had the past few weeks' worth of awkwardness really been entirely her fault?  
  
"We do." Harry's untidy dark hair was falling in front of his eyes, and he had to keep pushing it out of the way with a growl and a grimace. Hermione giggled; it was hard to take seriously anyone who had to fight their most important battle with their unruly mane of hair.  
  
Hermione just grinned, and the smiles vanished from their faces. They watched her, eyes roving distrustfully, wondering what she was going to do and when.  
  
"Oh, come on," she laughed, waving it off as being of no importance. "We're almost there."  
  
The boys smirked and nodded; they had won. They were still several steps ahead of Hermione, and when they turned, she was left with a safe distance of three or so feet. As they walked, she reached down stealthily to grasp in her hands some of the wet, sticky snow from the road. Perfect. She divided the mound of snow into two roughly equal portions and began to shape identical spheres.  
  
Harry and Ron never saw it coming; the snowball hit Ron on the back of the neck, and Harry's right upside the head. They gasped, hissing with the cold, and tried to wipe the offending snow from their skin. The heat from their hands only served to melt the snow further; she could see their sweaters being stained darker as the water ran down their backs.  
  
Hermione wasn't sure she could remain on her feet; she was bent double with laughter, unable to meet their eyes. The looks on their faces at that moment when they had turned had been priceless. She would have given anything for a Polaroid image.  
  
Harry pursed his lips. "You think that's FUNNY, do you?"  
  
She managed to straighten up, placing a hand to her tender midsection; her entire abdomen hurt from the force of the bellowing laughter. "I think that's revenge," she managed to gasp out, and saw their faces light up. She didn't have time to duck before Ron reached down to fashion his own snowball. The impact of the cold snow on her face drove the breath out of her.  
  
* * *  
  
"Oh, man, am I cold!" Harry shivered, pulling his mug of butterbeer closer to him and attempting to warm his hands on the sides. Hermione was viewing him out of wet, stringy hair that she could not seem to remove from her view. Her peripheral vision was encompassed by a rat's nest of damp, tangled hair.  
  
She brushed it out of her face for the umpteenth time and grinned. Harry placed the palm of his hand over the mug, hoping to catch some of the steam coming from the hot liquid. Hermione doubted that anyone had ever walked up to Madam Rosmerta and requested that she heat their butterbeer to boiling temperatures as they had; but it served a purpose. They were finally warming.  
  
She sipped her butterbeer and then turned her attention back to her friends. "Can I ask you two a question?"  
  
They looked up. "Yeah?" Ron asked. Harry had butterbeer in his mouth and could only raise his dark eyebrows until they seemed to disappear into his hair.  
  
She frowned, wondering how to best approach the subject. It could potentially be a tender topic with them; they had never, in her opinion, been known to show much foresight. She would not criticize, but did not want to cause any anger.  
  
"What are you planning to do after we graduate?" she asked finally, stroking a finger idly around the handle of her mug.  
  
Ron glanced at Harry; Harry glanced at Ron. Both looked back at her, and they shrugged in unison.  
  
"Thinking of maybe doing an internship in Egypt with Bill," Ron said finally, a pensive tone entering his voice. "He offered last year, and since I'm not ready to make a permanent decision, I think that might be best."  
  
Harry nodded his agreement before he answered for himself. "I don't have the grades to get into the Ministry of Magic," he told her, not sounding at all disappointed, "but I may quality for a Quidditch scholarship to the Glasgow Institute, get some kind of training."  
  
She nodded; it was an admirable plan. The Glasgow Institute of Secondary Education, a wizarding university, more or less, offered myriad Quidditch scholarships. Harry would definitely qualify for one among them, and she knew that nothing would make him happier than the chance to play Quidditch on a regular, competitive basis for as long as possible.  
  
"Sounds good," she said with a smile.  
  
"And you?" Ron asked finally, eyes boring into hers.  
  
"The Ministry of Magic, I hope," she admitted. "They might send me to Glasgow or something, but if I do well on the N.E.W.T.s, I should qualify immediately."  
  
"Hey, that would be great!" Harry exclaimed. "Wouldn't it?" He turned to Ron. "She'd be there with your dad."  
  
"And Percy," Ron reminded him, causing all three to break into short laughter. Hermione, though she cared not the slightest for Percy, would still be polite toward him. She had always received the impression that Percy felt her to be a know-it-all; most likely, he would perform his own share of avoidance.  
  
"What department?" Harry queried.  
  
Her eyes widened momentarily, and she bit her lip in concentration. She had not yet given that particular aspect of her future any thought; she had always assumed that, upon entering the Ministry of Magic, inspiration would strike and she would find herself inexplicably drawn to a certain area. Now that she considered it, that was naïve and downright foolish-she could not expect the decisions to solve themselves for her.  
  
"Not sure," she admitted. "Maybe International Affairs would be interesting."  
  
"Anything that doesn't involve cooperating with Percy will be interesting," Ron promised with a sly smile.  
  
* * *  
  
Upon returning to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione was met immediately by the sounds of a girl's desperate wailing. Wincing, she removed her coat and heavy cloak (which had become necessary once the temperature cooled with the waning day) and tossed them on a nearby chair. She had intended to spend a few hours studying for their upcoming Transfiguration test, but her curiosity overcame her good intentions; she padded softly up the stairs and peeked into her own dormitory room.  
  
It was Parvati; somehow, she had expected that. Lavender was bending over her best friend's prone figure, lying on her bed with her face buried in several pillows, trying to assuage her apparent grief.  
  
Hermione approached with polite trepidation, leaning over just slightly to see what she could of Parvati. Lavender shot her a desperate look, fairly begging for Hermione's intervention; it was clear that she had no further methods of helping Parvati, and none had worked. Parvati's cries were increasing in volume and heart-wrenching sorrow.  
  
"Parvati?" The cries stopped immediately and Hermione was soon confronted with Parvati's tear-streaked face as she looked up from her pillow.  
  
"Oh. It's you." She wiped the back of her hand across both eyes to remove as much dampness as possible, and rested comfortably on her forearms, allowing herself a look at Hermione. "Did you have a good time at Hogsmeade?" Her voice was bitter, but remorseful.  
  
"Yes. What's wrong?" Hermione stopped herself from sitting on the edge of the mattress and placing a comforting hand on Parvati's shoulder; this was Parvati, not Ginny, and Lavender was there to perform whatever bedside manner was necessary.  
  
"Dean broke up with me." A series of sniffles followed, as well as a few sobs. "I don't know what I did wrong!"  
  
"It wasn't you!" Lavender exclaimed vehemently. "You didn't do anything, you know that. It was him."  
  
"No, I DON'T know that," Parvati retorted. "It was probably me."  
  
"Blaming yourself is no way to repair damaged self-esteem," Hermione pointed out with as much compassion as she could muster. She still didn't completely understand the situation, and was hesitant to develop a strong opinion one way or the other without hearing both sides of the story.  
  
"He just came up to me all of a sudden, and.and." She gratefully accepted a tissue from Lavender, and paused to blow her nose and wipe fresh tears from her eyes. "...Then he asked me if we could go somewhere quiet to talk. So I went with him"-she nodded toward the Hogwarts grounds, in the direction of the lake-"and we sat by the lake, and he started talking.  
  
"He was babbling, and I knew it. He just didn't know how to say it without hurting my feelings, but he was trying, I have to admit THAT." She glowered despite her acceptance. "Then he told me, 'I really DO like you, but you're far too possessive and overbearing.' Overbearing!" Another tissue was needed, and a few more seconds' pause. "He never once told me that I was overbearing, or possessive, or anything awful. All I ever heard before was compliments."  
  
"Perhaps he didn't know how to break it to you gently, and it finally caught up with him." Hermione felt awkward with her suggestions, because she was unaccustomed to pampering a heartbroken friend. Ginny loved only Harry, and had her own more knowledgeable friends to turn to for comfort in her times of need. Hermione had never been her shoulder to cry on, and she was finding the position to be far out of her league.  
  
"I suppose." Parvati seemed to have regained control over her renegade emotions, and was now dry-faced and without red eyes. She leaned back against the pillows at the head of her bed and stared thoughtfully out the nearby window. Hermione wondered whether it was her cue to leave.  
  
"I'll go now." She rose and made a motion to go to the door, but Lavender stopped her with her voice.  
  
"Hey Hermione, I forgot to tell you, you're supposed to go see Headmaster Dumbledore."  
  
Hermione's heart fluttered a few times and then seemed to stop. She pivoted slowly on her left foot until she was facing Lavender, and forced herself to look as calm and unflustered as possible.  
  
"Whatever for?"  
  
"I have no idea. He stopped me in the hallway and told me that when you returned, I was supposed to deliver the message. He said for you to come to his office as soon as you had the chance."  
  
Hermione nodded, eyes avoiding Lavender's. "Yes, all right. I'll leave, then. Thank you." Lavender was, mercifully, too preoccupied with Parvati to notice how shaken Hermione truly was.  
  
She took her time getting to the Headmaster's office, her mind overflowing with irrational worries. While she knew the odds were very much against his knowing of her and Snape (dared she now say 'Severus'?), she could not help but fear such a situation. How he could find out, she did not know; but there were times when he seemed to be more All-Knowing that Professor Trelawney with her Inner Eye, and Hermione felt her worries were justified.  
  
The gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office met her with a stony, unforgiving stare. She could have sworn it was daring her to enter, and found that anger was beginning to boil deep inside her body.  
  
Without knowledge of the password, she began to rattle off random guesses. "Lemon drop. Chocolate frog. Cockroach cluster. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans." Nothing. The fire inside her stomach rose into her chest. "Fine then! Peppermint Imp! Chocoball! Licorice Twist!"  
  
With a squeal and a sickening scraping, the gargoyle moved ungracefully to the side to admit her entrance. Licorice twist? That was awfully Muggle for Dumbledore's tastes; but she had no time to consider that.  
  
At the top of the staircase, she paused for thirty seconds to gather her composure. She could hear from within the room the rustle of soft wings- Fawkes-and the scrape of a quill against parchment. No audible voices, however, so it was likely that the Headmaster was alone; it was a relief for her. If he had indeed called her to elicit a confession, it would be without the added embarrassment of Snape's presence.  
  
"Headmaster?" She pushed the door ajar, only enough to allow a portion of her face to be visible to the occupant inside. "You wanted to see me?"  
  
"Ah! Yes indeed, Miss Granger-please come in." With a flourish, he finished his writing and placed the quill aside, capped the inkwell, and folded his hands in front of him, watching her intently. Hermione had slipped through the door and shut it carefully. She stood deliberately in front of the door and did not move toward a chair.  
  
"Sit down, Hermione. Make yourself comfortable." His smile was disarming, and his eyes were twinkling; but she could not fully trust him.  
  
Placing herself on the edge of one of the seats, she kept her arms to her sides and ignored the stares coming from the portraits on Dumbledore's walls. Past headmasters and headmistresses, bored out of their wits and trapped within confining frames, enjoyed scrutinizing the occasional visitor. Hermione hated to be the subject of their gossipy discussions; already, inter-portrait whispers had begun.  
  
"Hermione, are you feeling well? You look slightly pale."  
  
"Fine, sir. Just a little.startled."  
  
"By my summons, you mean?" He laughed. "Nothing to worry about, I assure you! Actually, I have quite an interesting prospect for you."  
  
She cocked her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. "Sir?"  
  
"With the end of the school year coming to a close, the Ministry of Magic has begun its annual recruiting." Her excitement began to rise steadily, but she held her tongue and waited for him to complete his explanation. "Naturally, you are yet a bit young to undertake a position of much prestige within the Ministry, but they have requested that I speak to you, especially, about a possible internship this summer."  
  
She gasped, eyes widening, and her face broke into a broad grin. An internship! Not only would an internship deliver invaluable job experience, but also, it would provide her with a moderately profitable summer activity.  
  
Dumbledore was beaming as well, clearly pleased by her thrill. "I'm glad you approve. You would undertake a position similar to that held by Percy Weasley originally-possibly an assistant to another employee, but also completing your own personal tasks. The Ministry has stated irrevocably that, should you wish it, the position is yours. You are their first choice."  
  
"Absolutely!" She realized that she was falling forward off her chair, and had to brace her feet against the floor and push herself back. It took hands placed on the arm rests to keep her sitting upright-she wanted to curl into a joyful little ball.  
  
"Your lodgings, meals, and such will be provided by the Ministry. They understand that, being Muggle born, you are in a unique and difficult position. Their representative has informed me that they are more than willing to bend a few rules to accommodate you." He tapped a finger on the desk, surveying her excited squirming, and could not keep from adding, "I'm overjoyed that you agree, Hermione. This is a wonderful opportunity for you, and almost guarantees you an eventual position within the Ministry."  
  
She bit her lip to prevent giddy laughter and admitted, "That was my goal, actually."  
  
"And a worthwhile one it is for someone of your talents and intellect. I will inform the representative that you have agreed, and I daresay he will want to meet with you sometime in the next few months."  
  
"That would be fine." She longed to escape from his office and run screaming through the halls of the castle, to tell Harry and Ron.  
  
"You can leave now," he told her, noticing her wriggling legs and uneasy movements. "I'm sure you can't wait to tell your friends."  
  
"Thank you!" The words were hardly out of her mouth before she had removed herself from the chair and was across the room, yanking at the door.  
  
"Oh, Hermione-one more thing." She turned, fully expecting another little anecdote involving the Ministry of Magic. "Ginny Weasley admitted a startling thing to me yesterday, when I crossed her in the hallway."  
  
Every ounce of blood in Hermione's face drained away; her pallor remained sickly pale and her eyes look like those of a frightened rabbit. Dumbledore, shocked by her response, was unable to continue for several seconds.  
  
"She told me that she is concerned for you-that she thinks you may be pushing yourself too hard in your classes."  
  
She mouthed wordlessly. WHAT?  
  
"Don't exhaust yourself, Hermione. Your grades are excellent, as always, and you are far too close to graduating to have a nervous breakdown. Take a slight break. You deserve it more than any other student I could name."  
  
The color slowly seeped back into Hermione's face, and she breathed a sigh of intense relief. "Thank you, sir. I will."  
  
"No, you won't," he whispered after she had left. Hermione would never allow herself to slack off, even the slightest bit. He knew that many teachers worried about her-that her rigorous work ethic would one day be the death of her. Severus Snape especially, Dumbledore remembered; and it was odd for him to care about the mental health of any student at all.  
  
* * *  
  
The evening was cool and the wind blustery; Hermione shivered inside her many layers as she sat huddled against the exterior stone wall on Gollum's Balcony.  
  
When Snape arrived, he stood just outside the door and directly next to her, looking down with an expression of utter amusement. She glared up and burrowed her face deeper into her cloak, causing him to laugh.  
  
"You look like a chipmunk scrambling for shelter," he informed her, walking across the balcony and leaning against the barrier on the far side to admire her. She shrugged and pulled the folds of fabric more closely about her body, wishing she had had the foresight to bring along her thick woolen coat.  
  
"And you don't look at all cold," she said with a perplexed tone. He shook his head and said, quite matter-of-factly,  
  
"I am rarely cold."  
  
"How is that possible?" She stood up slowly, stiffly, and stretched the cold-induced kinks from her legs and joints. Snape was thinking to himself, apparently considering his reply.  
  
"I don't know. The cold has never bothered me." His appearance corroborated with his statement completely; he wore only his regular cloak over his robes, and it was unbuttoned and hanging loosely about his shoulders. Hermione envied his immunity.  
  
He silently removed his cloak, crossed the stone floor, and held it out for her. She could tell by his tense fingers and stiff stance that he felt too awkward-maybe even too shy?-to put it on her himself. She smiled gratefully and took the cloak in her own fingers, draping it about herself to make her fourth, maybe even fifth, layer. The cloak was nearly a foot too long and considerably too broad in the shoulders, the sleeves reaching far beyond her hands. She giggled, and noticed that he was smiling as well.  
  
"Perhaps you will grow into it," he remarked, as would a sympathetic mother. She laughed and swirled her arm in circles; the superfluous material beyond her hands flapped in the cold air.  
  
"Did Dumbledore speak with you today?" His eyes were darker, somehow, in the ebony night, and she tried hard to concentrate on forming her words.  
  
"Yes. I've been offered an internship with the Ministry of Magic."  
  
"It's about time." The encouragement that filled his voice was timid but sincere. "I was wondering when they would send a representative. I have connections within the Ministry. They have been intent upon recruiting you for a considerable time now."  
  
"Really?" The thought that another person-maybe even people-had been tracking her academic career for any length of time both fascinated and repelled her. It was creepy, in many ways, but incredibly flattering.  
  
"Absolutely. They would be unable to place a price on the worth of having you as an employee."  
  
Hermione was grateful for their reduced sight in the dimmed light; she was blushing furiously and hated to be caught in such a state. She hoped the embarrassment was not detectable in her voice.  
  
"I had hoped to secure a position there."  
  
He nodded. "A worthwhile goal."  
  
She grinned. "You know, Professor Snape, that's exactly what the Headmaster said."  
  
He became grave suddenly. "You may call me Severus, you know." His gaze penetrated the darkness to try and read the somewhat pained expression that flitted across her face; it was gone instantaneously, but not quickly enough. It was clear to him that something about his words bothered her.  
  
Severus. She tested the name. It had a delicious sound to it-dark, masculine, almost forbidden in nature. Yet thinking it was one thing; calling him by that name was entirely another. He was her teacher, after all, and one was not supposed to be on a first-name basis with one's teacher. Somehow, it seemed more a violation of the rules than their relationship.  
  
"I-I don't know if I can call you that," she conceded with a nervous smile.  
  
"Why not?" He moved a little closer.  
  
"Because it may cause irreparable damage to the level of respect I'm supposed to have for you," she teased, loving his exasperated reaction.  
  
"Oh, hell, don't give me that." He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I can't stand hearing you call me 'Professor' every time; there is something undeniably wrong about it."  
  
"Fine." She submitted. "I'll try it-Severus."  
  
"There." He was right next to her now, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body; it was heaven compared to the frigid shroud of air surrounding her. "That did not seem all that difficult."  
  
"No." His lips were close to hers and she could actually feel the kiss that was to come. There were times when she could lose herself in the kiss, lose her mind and her thoughts in an unconscious effort to abandon every restraint and feel lost and beautifully free. But there were times, like this particular time, when the rapture that flooded her brain was clouded by a sense of shame and dread. She tried to push it from her mind, to concentrate instead on the amazing feeling of his lips against hers; but the thoughts stood firm and refused to budge. 


	9. Chapter 9

Inescapable Chapter Nine  
  
With the approach of February, the temperatures during the evenings dropped astonishingly low; even Severus was beginning to admit he felt chilled. Hermione would stare at him each night, wrapped in layer after layer of whatever material had been at her disposal, both intrigued and disgusted by his ability to withstand the frigid temperatures.  
  
"I don't understand you," she would say night after night, shaking her head in disbelief. The remark never failed to elicit a grin from him; he was accustomed to being misunderstood, but rarely did he meet someone who wouldn't understand him to begin with.  
  
"Did you ever stop to think," she pursued, "that maybe you have a chronic illness? That could explain you immunity to cold; you may have an internal temperature imbalance, and that could be dangerous." She frowned. "Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey."  
  
"Ah." His tone was not mocking, but it was teasing. "And I should say to her, 'I have discovered over numerous nights meeting with the student I am secretly having a relationship with that I seem never to feel the cold.. She has expressed her concern and would like to know if I am ill.' That would do, I presume?"  
  
She scowled, and he laughed. Even after all the weeks of seeing him smile, such a rare and beautiful thing, his laugh had the power to take her breath away. She knew it was completely unlike anything the other students-and she too, she admitted, scarcely a few months ago-would have attributed to him. They expected a cold, cruel, mocking laugh, something worthy of an evil sorcerer. But his laugh was anything but evil; it retained the deep timbre of his voice but had a carefree sound to it that she had fallen in love with.  
  
Something possessed her to mention her amazement. "You have a wonderful laugh," she said almost shyly, watching the smile that played at his lips. "You should laugh more often."  
  
"Not what you were expecting?" She blushed visibly, even in the darkness, at the quiet solemnity of his voice. Not many Hogwarts students realized that Professor Snape knew perfectly well the true nature of their thoughts and opinions regarding him.  
  
"No," she admitted, but his voice remained quiet as he replied,  
  
"Then you will have to give me something to laugh about."  
  
The glare she gave him as a retort did the trick; he laughed again.  
  
* * *  
  
One particularly cold evening the first week of February, Hermione could no longer withstand the temperature. She had been wondering for several minutes how to best demand that they abandon the balcony for somewhere inside the castle, but he did it for her.  
  
His eyes grew wide suddenly, and he placed a hand to the side of her face, turning it to face him.  
  
"Your lips are blue!" He wasted no time in adding his own cloak to the already bulging stack of sweaters and cloaks she had wrapped around her and ushered her, to her great relief, inside the castle.  
  
They sought refuge in his own quarters, which Hermione had by now grown used to. She remembered, with every glance she gave the bookshelves, her first visit there, and the way he had looked at her with those intense dark eyes; she had fled, unable to hold her ground, and now there was no need to fear his reaction. Heat began to flow through her body; he returned her feelings. What could be better?  
  
Sitting in a comfortable armchair, she slowly began to remove her collection of outer-garments while Severus prepared a hot cup of tea for her; the thought of the warm liquid was enticing. He moved quickly and with efficiency, and she felt no shame in helping herself to the book on the nearby table. They had no trouble in going about their own business in his rooms, but it would have been lying to say they were completely comfortable. The mutual knowledge of the implications brought about by being alone in his quarters hung heavy in the air and preyed on both minds.  
  
Hermione knew better than to fear him in such a place; she trusted him completely, with her life and, more important now, her heart. But she did not trust herself and her own behavior.  
  
He handed her the cup of tea, which she accepted with a grateful smile and sipped; it was scalding hot, but her half-frozen tongue did not protest. Seconds later, she was able to take her first gulp, and the feeling of the hot liquid sliding down into her stomach sent a warm shiver through her body. She curled up in the chair and faced him.  
  
"Enjoying my book?"  
  
"To tell you the truth, I haven't even opened it yet."  
  
"It's informative enough," he remarked, an observant tone entering his voice. "A collection of essays regarding the use and abuse of Veritaserum; we expect that Voldemort might be using it often for his own purposes."  
  
He looked surprised by the fact that she did not flinch at the mention of the Dark Lord's real name. She met his gaze steadily, and wondered how to best articulate her next question.  
  
"Have you seen him?"  
  
His eyes, if it was possible, darkened to a shade even beyond black; for a moment, she wondered if she was staring into his mind.  
  
"Yes."  
  
She gulped. "What happens when you go there?"  
  
He averted his gaze, looking along the walls and the ceiling, and she could see him considering his reply carefully. Not only would he need to omit any information that was to remain absolutely confidential, but he would do his best not to cause her pain or worry with his words; his compassion ran deeper than she had ever imagined.  
  
"I am mainly a consultant," he finally said, "though the Dark Lord enjoys using those of us who were.late to return to his service as.examples."  
  
"Toys." He looked at her sharply and she immediately regretted what she had said.  
  
But his look softened when he saw that she was completely serious, and not mocking. "Yes. Toys."  
  
"Has he ever used the Unforgivables?" A look of intense pain swept across Severus' face, as though it held a power over him too strong for him to mask or conceal it.  
  
"Many times. I have endured the Cruciatus more times than I could count."  
  
Hermione remembered the end of their fourth year, when Harry had finally been able and willing to talk about his experiences fighting the Dark Lord. He had mentioned-but only by accident, he'd let it slip, really-that Voldemort had cast upon him the Cruciatus Curse. A convulsion had wracked Harry's entire body, and he could not be pressed to talk further. Her own knowledge of the Cruciatus Curse made her shiver at the thought.  
  
She returned to reality to notice that she was staring at her cup, running a finger idly around the rim as was her unconscious habit. Severus was watching her carefully, his eyes wandering from the cup to her face.  
  
"Are you all right?" She nodded, but the words came tumbling out of their own accord.  
  
"I can't stand the thought of him doing that to you-or anyone, for that matter. Three years now, and what's been accomplished?" His face betrayed none of his thoughts, but it would not have mattered; she could not stop the words. "I feel so incredibly helpless sometimes, knowing that people like you put themselves out in the open and risk their lives every single time, and what do I do?  
  
"I stay in this damn castle and shrink back at his name like every other girl. THAT'S what I do. I'm sick and tired of not being able to help, even though I know that I have nothing to offer in the way of assistance for the Ministry and the Headmaster, but." The tirade came to an end, and she had nothing to do but sip the last few drops of her tea and place the cup in her lap, protected between her hands.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't face him." It had taken her minutes to finally arrive at what truly bothered her, but he showed no triumph in hearing her words. "Especially now that I know what he does to you. Can't someone else go?"  
  
"You forget that anyone else may be in the same position I am. They may also have someone who cares about them, and whom they care about, that tries to forbid them for risking their lives." Even hearing him refer to her as 'someone he cared about' did nothing to quell her anger.  
  
"It's so frustrating." She sighed. "And what's even more frustrating is that your logic is better than mine."  
  
He chuckled. "I would hope so, after this many years. You will be every bit as logical as I am by the time you're my age, Hermione, perhaps even more so. But I don't envy you that." She glanced over to find him staring intently and purposefully at her. "Guard that mind of yours with all your power; it is your greatest asset."  
  
"You've got that right," she muttered dryly, and he smiled.  
  
"I never meant it to be interpreted that way."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, but he refused her flirtatious actions and continued to speak about the Dark Lord.  
  
"You have to be careful," he told her. "You, of all people, would be invaluable to Lord Voldemort. He will begin recruiting soon, gathering followers straight out of their seventh year at Hogwarts. He would not dare to take them while they remained in school, but directly after they leave, it is a prime opportunity for him. They are lost, without goals or ambitions, having only a desire to succeed; they lack the willpower to survive on their own and offer no defense, instead thriving under his direction. It is only power: he offers them that willingly, though they never have a true understanding of what they become entangled with.  
  
"You would be his greatest triumph, barring perhaps Harry, whom I doubt he would accept." Severus frowned, as though trying to delve into the Dark Lord's psyche. "Being a Gryffindor, female, and a friend of Harry, he would revel in your submitting yourself to him. Nothing could bring him more sick joy than having you as a Death Eater, Hermione. I promise you that."  
  
She was not sure how to respond. Was he informing her or pleading with her?  
  
"All seventh year students will have to be vigilant, but you must show the utmost precaution. If he contacts you, in any way, you must refuse him. Contrary to popular belief, the chances he will kill you for your refusal are low; he is more likely to erase your memory with a charm and allow you to go about with your life." She nodded, taking in his words, but she couldn't help but feel queasy at the thought of being contacted by Voldemort. "He hasn't the time nor the energy to kill every person he attempts to recruit, and it would cause far too much attention."  
  
He seemed to have finished with his oration, and she was left with a few moments of silence. Oddly enough, her mind drifted from his words and considered the position they now found themselves in. Their was nothing physical about their contact here; rather, it was an intellectual contact, a meeting of their minds that allowed them both to speak without restraint and consider the other's opinions. She enjoyed immensely her chances to speak with him, not as a student to a teacher but as one person to another, and she often wondered if it wasn't the making of a true and adult relationship.  
  
Severus glanced across the room at an old-fashioned crystal clock on one of the tables. "You should go," he said. "It's become rather late; the other Gryffindors may get concerned."  
  
She nodded, disappointed; she would have loved to remain with him and talk about the essays regarding Veritaserum, or perhaps something else. His myriad intellectual pursuits fascinated her; he was every bit the bookworm she was, and highly educated, besides.  
  
Gollum slithered momentarily out of her hole as though to show Hermione to the door. She bent down, drawing her cloak about her, and extended a hand to gently stroke the snake's head. Gollum twisted into a pleased circle and flicked her tongue affectionately against Hermione's wrist. She whispered her goodbye to the snake and slipped out the door he held open for her. Turning back on the stairs only once, she found that he still stood in the doorway, watching her depart. Neither smiled, but it warmed her, though she didn't know why.  
  
* * *  
  
They absently discussed over the next two days where to meet in the evenings; they met not every evening, but as often as they could. Severus occasionally had a staff meeting, or was called away for urgent business (the Death Eaters, she would think with a shudder), but they seized every opportunity.  
  
For his part, Severus would never have admitted, even to Hermione, how much he cared for her. Whether or not his feelings could have been described as 'love,' he didn't know; but he had a feeling that he was trying to conceal from himself how important and deep they really were.  
  
He certainly enjoyed their meetings, and not only for the chance to be with a woman (and she was a woman, he thought emphatically, not a mere teenage girl like so many of Hogwarts' female students) in a way he hadn't been able to enjoy for years. He enjoyed her company, too, for what it was: the respected thoughts of an intelligent person. She seemed to sense that, and though she never vocalized her gratitude, its presence was mutually recognized.  
  
The memory of the strange room on the fourth floor came back to him when he least expected it-in the middle of a class. He was teaching the sixth year ryffindor/Ravenclaw lesson, watching as they copied notes, and keeping an especially watchful eye on Ginny Weasley. She was a good student, he begrudgingly admitted, particularly if one took into consideration the closer brothers in the Weasley line of descendents; not since Charlie had he come across a Weasley so talented with Potions.  
  
But Ginny's demeanor had become very withheld and terse; she knew, after all, about his relationship with Hermione, and was not the least bit happy for either of them. He had no doubt that she felt great pity for Hermione, and an intense hatred for him that probably would match the Harry Potter's any day.  
  
It was ironic, then, that Ginny's quiet conversation with her table partner was about the abundance of mice on the fourth floor; it sparked his memory quite suddenly and he recalled the strange room he had run into years ago. It would be the perfect place for he and Hermione to meet, and she would probably be grateful for a secret place to curl up with a book or her homework; she often looked out of sorts while working on homework with the other Gryffindors, who did not share her penchant for silence during such a serious undertaking.  
  
He showed her that evening, but very briefly, for a staff meeting was to take place. She was absolutely delighted, though she never set foot in the room, remarking that it was the perfect place; well-hidden and abandoned, as demonstrated by the nearly inch-thick layer of dust that covered the floor and the sparse furniture tucked into the back corner of the room. She had assured him repeatedly that she had the route committed to memory, and already knew the best way to reach the rendezvous site from the Gryffindor common room. Still, he worried; it would do no good to have her found wandering the fourth floor, lost and without an explanation, at ten-thirty in the night.  
  
* * *  
  
The next day passed unusually quickly and he set off for the room. Hermione was in a giddy mood that day, pleased with the wealth of perfect papers she had received back in Arithmancy and Professor Flitwick's praise during Charms class. Feeling as though she was on clouds, she happily left the common room that evening with not so much as a glance backward or the slightest details about where she was headed.  
  
Green eyes flickered up to watch her leave from where Harry sat near the fireplace, working with scowl on his Divination homework. He had nearly given up hope of ever finishing, and seeing Hermione skip out with sparkling eyes and a broad smile was the last straw for him. He wanted to know, once and for all, where she was going at nights; her simple "for a walk" did not satisfy him one bit.  
  
Ron, who was completing a detention with Hagrid for "talking back" in Potions that day, was not there to accompany him; but it didn't matter. He hurried up to fetch his Invisibility Cloak from his clothes chest and, pulling it around his shoulders, fastened it in front of him and dashed out the portrait hole door. Hermione was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear faint footsteps coming from around the turn at the end of the left hallway; he scuttled along, and when he too turned, he saw her at the end of the ensuing passageway.  
  
Following at a safe distance, he tracked her through corridor after corridor, becoming dizzy and confused. Where in the world was she going? Perhaps she hadn't been fibbing when she had said she went for walks in the evening; she certainly appeared to have no definite destination, just wandering in whatever direction suited her fancy. It was not until she began to climb a staircase he didn't recognize that Harry had an inkling his tracking would not be in vain.  
  
At the top of the staircase, they entered a hallway Harry had never seen before. Ancient doors lined the walls, all of them appearing locked; he jiggled one as quietly as possible (Hermione was humming to herself and never noticed), and found that it was indeed locked. Falling behind her, he hurried to catch up; she was headed straight for the end of the hallway.  
  
But it was a dead end. A wall-sized tapestry, intended as a mural, hung there, but Hermione showed no signs of slowing. He couldn't understand it; any second now, she was going to run straight into the brick wall! He guarded himself against the sound of her body slamming into the wall, fighting the urge to cry out and wake her from whatever daydream in which she was immersed. But when she reached out her hand, steady and alert, she drew aside the tapestry to reveal a room.  
  
Hermione, proud of herself for finding the room, looked in to see Severus standing near a window at the far side. The floor, covered in the thick layer of dust, was unmarred but for the trail of his footsteps. Feeling in a childish mood, she stepped over his footsteps so that only one trail was left in the dust; it was rather like hopscotch, a game.  
  
He smiled, amused.  
  
"I will never be able to take the child out of you, will I?"  
  
She grinned, taking a place beside him. "Why would you want to? I always though it made me endearing."  
  
Harry watched with horror as the two began to talk, their bodies nearly touching; he had never seen anyone-anyone-standing so close to Professor Snape. Hermione's eyes were all aglow, and he had to admit she looked radiant and happy. Snape's face still looked grave, but there was an expression in his eyes Harry had never seen before.  
  
Steeling himself against whatever display of affection might ensue, Harry entered the room and crept into the corner opposite them. Snape's hand on Hermione's shoulder seemed tender enough, and his voice was deep and quiet but not mocking. He could scarcely hear their words, for they talked too quietly, but he had a perfect chance to determine from their body language what was going on.  
  
No wonder Ginny had acted so odd! These two were.he hated to think the word.having some kind of relationship. The thought that Hermione could like Snape was ludicrous enough, but the thought that he would share her feelings was downright sick, in his opinion. He'd always known there was something wrong with the Potions master; now he was positive the man deserved to be exiled from Hogwarts. Surely this was against the rules..  
  
Unfortunately, they had done nothing incriminating thus far; no kissing, fondling, nothing. Harry was both relieved and a little disappointed; he could never get Snape fired if it looked as though they were just secretly best friends. The thought pained him. Had Hermione been so dissatisfied with his friendship and Ron's that she had felt it necessary to turn to the worst teacher in the school? Ron would be crushed, but the situation would only be worse if it was a romantic relationship. Ron could no longer deny his feelings for Hermione, and to find that he was favored less than Snape would destroy him.  
  
He watched with a feeling of nausea as they drew closer together, and Hermione stood on her tiptoes to meet Snape's lips; they kissed for only a moment, and then she said something that made him smile slightly. She appeared to be gesturing about the room, in the direction of the windows and the furniture, but he had seen enough to know that they would provide ample proof of their transgression. He just hoped the majority of the blame would be placed on Snape.  
  
Hermione was indeed gesturing about the room.  
  
"It's odd, isn't it, that it's been left alone for so many years?" The veritable carpet of dust stretched across the entire expanse of the room, covering the heaped old furniture in the corner and dotted the cobwebs along the bricks of the stone floor.  
  
"I don't recall any place in this particular area ever being in use," Severus mused. "At least, not as long as I have been here."  
  
She was nodding her understanding when it caught her eye; the second trail of footsteps. Footsteps, clearly imprinted in a trail along the far corner of the wall, led from the entrance to the room to a corner by the opposite window. The trail left by Severus-and the one she had followed-was still there, leading directly toward them. But the other one branched off in the other direction, ending in empty space.  
  
That was not there when she had entered.  
  
"There's someone in here," she whispered. Her back nearly against the wall, Severus stood in front of her, her view nearly blocked by the breadth of his shoulder unless she stood on her tiptoes. Severus' eyes darkened and he began to turn, but she placed a warning hand on his shoulder and drew him back to face her.  
  
"There's another trail of footsteps that wasn't us. I followed yours, remember? It wasn't there when I came in."  
  
Severus did turn now, but imperceptibly, as though he were nonchalantly glancing about the room. When he faced her again, his dark eyes were burning with anger.  
  
"You're right. Someone has been in here."  
  
Both became deathly quiet, and from across the room, hardly discernible, they heard soft breathing; then a muffled scraping, as though someone had bumped into the wall.  
  
"They're still here," she murmured, becoming frightened. It was all too possible that Lord Voldemort had sent someone to infiltrate the castle and follow Severus. Now they would both be killed, or perhaps tortured. She was not sure she could survive one of the Unforgivables, and she could never live through watching Severus put in such agony.  
  
"Don't worry." He looked fiercely determined now, but not the least bit frightened. "I have a feeling I know exactly who it is."  
  
Realization began to dawn on Hermione as Severus pulled out his wand and muttered words she could not here. Green tendrils began to snake their way across the doorway, the only exit, of the room; soon they had formed a shield, and Hermione knew from glancing at it that their invisible assailant was trapped in the room with them.  
  
No words came from the invisible person, but suddenly the breathing was louder, more scared and intense. She smiled in grim satisfaction; if Harry had thought it necessary to follow them in order to obtain proof of her actions and slip away unnoticed, he had another thing coming.  
  
They were both facing him now, waiting for him to remove the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione was unsure how she could be so positively convinced it was Harry, but she knew nonetheless, beyond any doubt. Ron would be serving detention for his snappish attitude in Severus' classroom that day, so it could only be Harry. Although Ginny might have come along for the ride; maybe she'd finally let Hermione's secret slip.  
  
Clenching her fists in anger, Hermione strode across the room to where the footsteps ended abruptly near the window. She heard no scuffle, no sounds of retreat; Harry had to be standing right there, directly in front of her. She reached out her hand and her fingers connected with the soft material of the Invisibility Cloak; in one smooth movement, she grasped it and yanked it off.  
  
And there was Harry, eyes wide, hair disheveled, backed firmly against the wall.  
  
"Hello." Hermione's voice was cold and distant as she regarded him with icy eyes. Her eyes were usually so warm, Harry thought wistfully, and what shone through now was a blaze of yellow fire. Snape was still standing across the room, arms folded, looking at Harry with an oddly calm expression. Harry had expected to be beaten to a pulp. How had they possibly known he was there?  
  
"Are you happy?" Hermione tossed the cloak on the floor, where it landed with a thump that rose dust clouds several feet high. Harry ignored his anger at the maltreatment of his father's cloak and looked back at his irate friend. "You have your proof. Did you record it somehow?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice was as sincere as his face; he hadn't recorded it, perhaps he hadn't even intended to. But it didn't matter to Hermione, who was beyond angry; she was now absolutely livid.  
  
"You must be pleased with yourself." He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but dark blurs were swirling across the irises of her eyes like storm clouds. "You tracked me all the way here, didn't you? And now you have your proof. So you can carry it off to Dumbledore and ruin our lives. Pleased?"  
  
"I had no intention of doing that," Harry lied, knowing the honesty had long since abandoned his tone of voice.  
  
"Sure you didn't," she snapped, beginning to pace. "Curiosity just got the better of you, and you decided to follow me for the hell of it. Is that it?" The soft shuffle of her shoes on the aged stone floor was the only noise that broke the silence so thick it was almost audible.  
  
"Yes." He could tell she didn't believe him.  
  
"What made you come? Did Ginny tell you?"  
  
Harry tried to feign shock. "Ginny knew about this?"  
  
"Oh, come on!" Hermione was beginning to sound like an interrogator. "Of course she knew about it! You had to realize something was going on, since you were always prying me for answers. I take it you just weren't satisfied with anything I told you."  
  
"Frankly, no." He could feel his confidence returning, even faced with an outraged Hermione and a probably doubly angry Snape.  
  
"Well done, Potter." Snape had not moved, but his voice carried across the room, deeper than Harry had ever heard it. "I never imagined you would be such a talented detective."  
  
"I wasn't trying to-"  
  
Once again, his protest was cut off by Hermione.  
  
"Sure you weren't. You were just trying to be a loyal friend, making sure I didn't get into trouble."  
  
"That's right." His own voice was still surprisingly feeble. He had never seen Hermione angrier, even though she wasn't actually shouting.  
  
"I don't believe you one bit." She was biting her lip, and he was positive now that the glistening sheen in her eyes was not frothing hatred, but tears that threatened to fall, which she was trying desperately to hold back. The shock of finding her involved was such a thing that it was almost too much; in a moment of compassion, Harry wished he could get his hands on the nearest Time Turner and rewind the situation.  
  
Hermione turned to face toward the entrance, staring at the green light with her chin trembling. She placed a hand to her face and took a moment to regain her composure, while man and boy regarded each other with a hatred stemming from a long rivalry finally brought to a climax. When Snape stepped forward to place a hand on Hermione's shoulder, and she turned to bury her face in his chest instead, Harry lost all grip on reality.  
  
"This is wrong!" he yelled at her, forgetting her somewhat unstable condition second earlier. "I know it's wrong, YOU know it's wrong, and HE knows it's wrong!" He pointed an accusing finger at Snape, whose expression had not faltered. But he said nothing to Harry, only spoke in undertones with Hermione. She nodded miserably and took a deep, rattling breath.  
  
Then she turned to Harry. "I'm sorry."  
  
Harry was so taken aback he trampled over his father's cloak as he stepped backward in shock. "WHAT?"  
  
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, I'm acting childish, and." The look on Harry's face brought the past weeks' memories crashing back on her, and she felt the sudden burden of guilt settling around her shoulders. "I've been a real bitch these past weeks, haven't I?"  
  
Harry forced himself not to smile, noticing that Snape was. Hermione, struggling to find humor in the dire situation, gave a small giggle. "And it's taken me this long to realize it."  
  
"It's not your fault," Harry comforted, finding sudden empathy for her. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. But it IS wrong." The chastising frown he gave her made Hermione flinch, and Snape was taking the reprimand with remarkable calmness.  
  
"Thank you for the lesson in moral importance, Potter," he said wryly, and for a moment the two stared at one another. As Hermione stood in the middle, Harry came to the slow acceptance that for once, he and Snape had something in common: Hermione. Both were, in their own way, doing their best to care for her and comfort her. But it irked Harry-maybe out of jealousy, maybe out of protectiveness-that Snape's role had suddenly overtaken his own position in Hermione's affections. Until romance came along, he and Ron held the top spot.  
  
Harry nodded toward Snape, unable to resist. "He didn't.?"  
  
Snape looked, for once, embarrassed, and Hermione burst out laughing. "No. He didn't. We didn't. Get it out of your mind, Harry."  
  
Harry blushed, suddenly ashamed. "Sorry. I just wanted to make sure."  
  
"You don't have to protect me." He could sense her growing defensive again, and as Hermione was not one to appreciate another's offer for protection, he was anxious to change the direction of his advance.  
  
"It isn't Potter's fault." Snape was leaning idly against the wall watching the two of them, though his eyes were more often taking in Hermione's state than Harry's. "If anything, it is indicative of affection; you should be grateful for such a caring friend." He looked hard at Harry. "Hopefully, you two respect one another's ability to make decisions."  
  
His hair, his clothes, his entire body were shadowed and dark in the dim moonlight sifting through the dust-covered windows. Hermione was overcome suddenly by the urge to explain everything to Harry, to even show him that his view of Severus was drastically different than her own. Harry saw merely the Potions master, the cruel ex-Death Eater and the sarcastic terror of the classroom; but Hermione's gaze took in only the formidable man, the strong appeal and sharp intelligence beneath the concealing black cloaks and even darker looks.  
  
But Harry would never understand; after all, not only was he male, but his entire view of the situation was now biased. He saw Snape as more the enemy than ever, now that he was preying on a friend. She hated to think what classroom experiences would follow this little confrontation.  
  
"Come on." She picked up Harry's Invisibility Cloak. "We should go. Severus, could you-?" She made a demonstrative gesture with the cloak in her hand, indicating the still-present webbed green shield that covered the door, blocking their exit.  
  
Harry was looking back and forth between Severus and her, and she had a feeling her use of Professor Snape's first name had unnerved him. Deciding it would be best to separate the two before mayhem ensued-Harry was sending dirty looks in Severus' direction, but no one could out-stare Severus in a case like this-she literally dragged Harry from the room. 


	10. Chapter 10

Inescapable Chapter Ten  
  
It was past eleven o'clock when Hermione and Harry clambered through the door to the Gryffindor common room. Ron was sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, breathing deeply and slowly, a sure sign of sleep. Harry went over to wake him, and Hermione made quick use of the opportunity to slip up the stairs into her dorm room alone.  
  
Not two minutes later, Harry's footsteps were coming up the staircase. He swore softly, noticing that she was gone. She was leaning against the door as though eavesdropping, her right ear pressed against the smooth, polished wood. She could just barely discern the sounds of Ron yawning, and then the door to the boys' room was opened, and closed.  
  
She twisted the doorknob as quietly as she could, wishing she knew of a charm or spell to place on her own feet to make them entirely silent. Taking the stairs with the greatest caution, she stole back down into the common room. Sensing that the last students had gone to bed, the lights and fire had extinguished themselves with some inexplicable magic; the area was completely dark. Praying that her presence would not be sensed as well, Hermione made her way over to a comfortable chair in the far corner, directly under the window.  
  
Sitting and thinking was, next to reading, what she was best at. For ten minutes straight, she remained in a trance-like state of meditation, watching the snowflakes tumble to earth in drifts; theirs was not usually a climate with heavy snowfall, but the next day would bring mountains of snow on the grounds. She traced lacelike patterns on the frosted glass of the window with her fingertips, remembering when she was younger and winter was the most exciting time of the year. The darkness, the snow, the physical steam of a person's warm breath, the cold temperatures that made her shiver with pleasure.  
  
Those days had long past, she thought wistfully. She would enter the world of adults soon, when days to play outside were few and far between, and the chance to be a child again was rare, if not impossible. The adult world offered so many temptations, so many chances to prove herself worthy and demand respect and recognition. But somehow, she felt that maybe, now that it drew near, that world was not as enticing as she had once thought. She had spent her entire life trying to prove herself; when had she ever stopped to enjoy it?  
  
A part of her felt that Severus could understand that-that they were, as he had once said to her, very much alike. It was comical now for her to think of her initial reaction to that statement; she'd been horrified at the mere suggestion that she was anything like the Potions master. It didn't seem such a repulsive thought now that she knew him, knew what qualities he truly possessed, whether or not he showed them to everyone else.  
  
To feel privileged to have met the man he really was seemed wrong to her, since she had gone about it in such a scandalous way. Still, she would not regret her actions, even if their relationship came to catastrophic end. She had memories now, recollections of long conversations and meaningful words that did and always would define a part of who she was. There was no reason to feel that their friendship, the platonic aspect of their relationship that revolved around the word and not the touch, was perfectly acceptable, maybe even encouraged. Many teachers showed visible efforts to befriend their students, to grow to understand what went on in the students' minds so they might better offer assistance. Why shouldn't he do the same, expected or not?  
  
She sighed, smearing over what was supposed to have been a sketch of a Christmas tree on the window. The house-elves would be angry to find a student's fingerprints, but it was too late now; she had etched designs everywhere, knowing they would be covered by the next morning.  
  
Her wandering thoughts brought her back to the possible outcome-either this worked, or it didn't. She wanted to have faith that it would, and she reassured herself many times a day that what she was doing wasn't as abhorrent as it seemed at first. They had, after all, crossed no dangerous boundaries and were merely enjoying one another's words and company, if with a few kisses here and there.. She smiled. Okay, more than a few. What else could she expect? It was easier to blame it on hormones. Maybe, then, it was her fault, not his.  
  
* * *  
  
Gollum had finally deserted her hole for the first time in over a week. Severus was reading when he felt the familiar, if missed, sensation of smooth scales across his leg. He glanced down in time to see the snake wrap herself around his leg and climb up, eventually settling in her favorite place, around his neck. To the average person, a snake of that size wrapped around the neck would be terrifying.  
  
She was gentle, though, and he was confident she would never harm him. Despite the independence she liked to portray, she knew perfectly well who fed her and protected her, and would never have jeopardized his life, even for a joke. That she could play pranks he was sure; he'd often found lights on when they shouldn't have been and shoes placed where they didn't belong. The snake was wilier than any animal on Earth.  
  
Gollum flicked an explorative tongue across the pages of his book- Hermione's interest, on the use and abuse of Veritaserum-and seemed to grow bored with it. She bent her slender neck to peer up at him through liquid eyes, and he couldn't help but smile.  
  
"It isn't my fault you aren't literate," he told her. "Find something else with which to amuse yourself; that isn't my business."  
  
The snake, giving him a haughty look, abandoned her perch and chose instead to stretch out to her full length, six feet of black serpentine glory, near the fireplace. The winters were difficult for any cold-blooded animal, and with her fondness for exploring the colder regions of the castle, he often worried that she would become ill. But she seemed to know what was best for her, and often basked in the heat of the fire when she had the chance. She was a beautiful creature, albeit a bit daunting in appearance, and he was glad of her company.  
  
The other members of the faculty rarely met his rigorous standards of companionship; only Minerva McGonagall came close, and they had nothing whatsoever in common. Dumbledore could be intellectually stimulating but rarely was able to address anything deeper or more personal. Not that Severus wanted to reveal anything personal about himself. He was an intensely private man, having found no one he dared say anything to. It was by sheer luck, in his opinion, that Hermione had discovered the truth about his past with Lily Evans.  
  
He supposed the wealth of information Hermione had pried from him over the course of the past few months probably shocked and astounded her. He knew she believed him; everything he said was credible, even if it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But he trusted her to keep the information to herself, and not use to for her own purposes.  
  
It was an odd feeling to trust someone; for many years, Dumbledore had been the only one he trusted, and that trust hadn't been the genuine article. It was borne mainly of respect and grudging dependence, not his idea of real trust. Real trust had to stem from the deepest part of a person's soul, not just their mind, and finding that he trusted Hermione-REALLY trusted her- frightened him.  
  
But he would not be a coward; he would not sever the ties of the most promising relationship of his life because of his own pitiful insecurities. The thought had crossed his mind many times that, with the astounding potential their relationship held, he was perhaps approaching it the wrong way. He could not deny to himself the fact that he enjoyed the physical contact with Hermione-to kiss a woman and be that close was something he had missed for many years, even yearned for. Yet it was only by talking to her that he felt a real connection.  
  
It occurred to him then that a fundamental element was missing, which might very well account for the horrible aching sensation he felt every time he kissed her. There was lust, sure-he couldn't help but be attracted to her in the way any male would. And Hermione certainly seemed to harbor her own desires, though she was just beginning to discover such intimate things in herself.  
  
But they lacked the most important part: passion. There was the usual rush of adrenaline, the intoxicating feeling of being so close to another human being, but he felt no real passion where Hermione was concerned. Both should have reveled in the other's very presence, been blind to their surroundings when they were together in the room. They needed, he knew, the same unbreakable bond that he and Lily had once shared.  
  
To think her name brought a wistful smile to his face. Lily had been, and always would be, the wonderful climax of his primarily painful and solitary life. To be even in the same vicinity as her had been to be in love-her eyes, her smile, even her very words, had lit up his entire life. Her presence had made his own worthwhile, and as they had sat for hours talking in the Potions classroom while working on independent projects, he had realized that he would never be half so happy without her company. The mutual respect and admiration they had shared had been overruled only by the strange and invisible force that had seemed to draw them together at every turn.  
  
That, he thought with conviction, was passion-and he had not felt it since. It was a shame, sure, but would Hermione not be better off without him? He loathed the thought; her companionship had lit a warming fire in the frigid, barren wilderness of his life for the first time in twenty years. They could not, after all, predict what might become of them; whether good fortune would rain down or ill omen would fall upon them unsuspecting.  
  
He smiled wryly, thinking of Potter and his surprise antics. He thought highly of Potter's affection for Hermione, but it would not be beyond him to run through the castle, screaming their secret to all and sundry. It gave him a moment of amusement to picture his colleagues' expressions. Minerva would look stoic and determined, her usually stern face becoming an impassive mask. He could picture tiny Professor Flitwick's wide eyes, and hear Professor Sprout's scandalized gasp. Of Trelawney's reaction, he had no doubt-there would be none, as the miserable wretch would never leave her tower to begin with. It was the Headmaster's response he could not quite picture, as though his mind's eye suddenly lost all contact with Dumbledore's personality. He would no doubt see it as a personal crusade to ensure that his most promising student was henceforth kept entirely from Severus' reach; but beyond that, he could not begin to guess.  
  
Gollum began to stir from her warm stones, just enough to watch him intently. He offered a small smile, which the snake seemed to acknowledge and return. He shared a connection with serpents that no one, not teacher nor animal expert, could possibly have interpreted. Gollum returned languidly to her hole, tail swishing slowly back and forth. A tidal wave of pain swept over him in sudden longing as he realized that, despite the recent beneficial developments in his life, he was still irrevocably miserable; he even envied the life of a snake.  
  
* * *  
  
Breakfast the next morning was an understandably awkward affair. Hermione briefly considered skipping the meal altogether, but thought better of it when, in a moment of foresight, she realized that she would be miserably hungry and unable to concentrate come time to classes. Thus she found herself trudging down the stairs wearing wrinkled robes and an ashamed expression. What had Harry told Ron?  
  
The two boys were sitting in their usual spots, and had saved seats for herself and Ginny. Ginny was not yet up; most likely, she was lolling behind with her friends, picking out her fifth consecutive outfit or gossiping. It was lucky that Ginny's lifestyle and her own were so drastically different-it prevented their already distant friendship from suffering irreparable blows from her relationship with Severus.  
  
"'Morning," Ron greeted her, his smile vanishing when he noticed the expression she wore. "What's wrong?"  
  
She quickly composed herself, taking her seat and wishing that the breakfast menu included something caffeinated to lift her weary body and soul. "Nothing. I'm just tired is all."  
  
"You look it." He offered her some sausages, which she turned down, opting instead for a more bland and palatable bowl of oatmeal. The spoon seemed to drag through the cooked oats just as her own feet had dragged down the stairs. As her head began to grow heavy, Hermione looked up to notice Ron staring at her.  
  
"Seriously, Hermione, what's wrong?"  
  
She dropped the spoon with a clatter and became suddenly brusque and alert. "What has Harry told you?" There was no point in bypassing the matter-if he had not yet found out, Harry was going to tell him eventually. Harry's hardening eyes were boring into hers, but she ignored him completely and focused exclusively on Ron.  
  
"Nothing." Ron swallowed a bite of sausage and combed over her face and body with his gaze. "Why? You're acting like I know something awful." He could not help but take in the fact that she was wearing rumpled robes, no doubt from the day before, and her hair, untended, had returned to an almost forgotten bushy state of years before.  
  
"Just curious." She voraciously ate a few bites of oatmeal, but her appetite mellowed when she realized how truly tasteless it was, and how truly tired she was. The previous night's revelatory session in the common room had not left her with the expected feeling of peace and acceptance; rather, she felt jittery and bone-tired, as though suffering from an addiction withdrawal.  
  
"Did you hear about the Muggle girl in London?" Ron asked, trying desperately to initiate a conversation. Hermione chewed slowly and thoughtfully. What Muggle girl?  
  
"No. Which of the millions of Muggle girls in London?" Ron looked hurt by her stinging sarcasm, and she instantly regretted it; she would have to watch her tongue on a morning with a mood as foul as hers.  
  
"The one You-Know-Who murdered." Hermione's eyes grew wide in response to the shock. "Well, they don't know if it was him, but it was obviously the work of Death Eaters. They even left the Dark Mark over the crime scene, just like they did years ago." Ron seemed slightly pale, but was telling her the story with a strong and controlled countenance. "She was fifteen or sixteen, walking her dog in a back alleyway. Not the smartest place to be."  
  
"Maybe she knew the place," Harry suggested, speaking up for the first time that morning. Hermione shot him a look of suspicious wondering, and he returned it with feigned indifference, munching on sausage with deliberate slowness and refusing to respond to her bait. She would die of suspenseful agony if she could not find out what Ron knew..  
  
"They're speculating that they'll kill again," Ron continued, abandoning his sausage to fully enjoy the telling of his tale. It was not often he held the spotlight, and several other people were now listening with awe, mouths gaping. "Maybe even closer to Hogwarts. They even think Hogwarts might be his final destination."  
  
"It doesn't take a genius to realize THAT," Hermione snapped suddenly. "Who the hell else would he want besides Harry?"  
  
Several people turned to stare at her in astonishment. Appalled by her own outburst, she muttered an apology and excused herself, stumbling over her leaden feet and robes as she left the table. Ron watched her go with a look of concern that quickly shifted to pained, hardened resolve.  
  
"Why didn't you tell her?" Harry demanded, throwing his fork down and glaring at Ron. "She might as well know that YOU know. She expects I told you; she wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't."  
  
"I know," Ron said with a sigh. "But she looked so tired that I didn't want to burden her with something else on top of it."  
  
Harry shook his head. "You're too kind to her. You know that? You're like a puppy that follows around with huge eyes and wants to do anything and everything to please her."  
  
"I do want to do anything and everything to please her." The response was of the utmost sincerity, and swiftly delivered. Up until then, Ron had not been sure he could make himself accept what he truly felt about Hermione, but he knew it now; even the shock of finding out about her and Snape, and as aghast as he had been, he still loved her.  
  
"You still like her." Though Harry phrased the words that followed as a question, it was understood by the tone of voice that they were more a statement of fact. His voice lowered as he hissed what followed: "She's having an affair with the slimiest bastard in the school, a teacher even, and you STILL like her."  
  
Ron's response was defensive. "You would too, in my position."  
  
"Then thank God I'm not you," Harry muttered.  
  
"I appreciate that." Harry thought that his friend seemed oddly calm and resigned, as though he had known for years in advance what would happen, and that he and Hermione were not destined to be together. As many years as they had been friends, it surprised Harry that losing the final and most important aspect of Hermione's affections did not leave Ron absolutely crushed.  
  
"Maybe she'll get over it," he voiced hopefully, but Harry snorted in disgust.  
  
"Yeah, and maybe instead they'll get married and have lots of little mini- Snapes to run around the castle and taunt us while we do our lessons. That's more likely, isn't it?"  
  
"Hermione would never marry him!" Ron whispered with forced emphasis. "She knows better than that. Imagine what their lives would be like twenty years from now: she'd be his age, still brilliant, have a great job, and he'd be far too old for her. They'd never be able to do anything together, and if she DOES want children, what kind of father would he make?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and speared his final piece of sausage. "I doubt she's concerned with his fathering skills."  
  
"She should be, if she's thinking about the future."  
  
"She obviously isn't, is she?" Having finished his breakfast, Harry rose from the table and threw down his napkin, wanting nothing more than to escape to the Quidditch field and assume the position of Beater; taking out his aggressions on a disobedient Bludger sounded the most appealing thing right then.  
  
"There has to be a way to make her see better," Ron remarked. Hearing him as he was leaving, Harry turned to deliver his final piece.  
  
"She knows him. She knows he's an ex-Death Eater, she knows he's a total bastard, and she knows everything he's done to us and that he's the scum of the earth. And has that made a difference? No. Either she's blind or she's in love-and both ways, there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."  
  
But Ron was not one to give up easily, and never one to feel helpless. "Yeah? Watch me."  
  
* * *  
  
Did he know?  
  
She repeated the question to herself numerous times as she stalked down the corridor, book bag in hand, heading toward Arithmancy class. Professor Vector had been complaining as of late that Hermione's attention span was waning; in the Professor's opinion, it was due to an impossibly rigorous work ethic and the dawning of graduation. Hermione did not particularly care if she spent yet another day contemplating life's many confusing mysteries rather than Vector's equations; without some serious thought, it was likely that her wonderings would eventually drive her mad.  
  
She would not have put it past Harry to tell Ron; in fact, she fully expected it, at leas the night before. But Ron had seemed genuinely innocent when she'd asked him; with a confrontation as direct as hers, only the most talented actor could have maintained the fortitude of such a lie. Harry's returned looks had not been devious, but rather angry and vengeful; she would get no answer from him.  
  
The corridor abruptly broadened into a small circular room, revealing a large bay window directly before one entered the Arithmancy classroom. As the other students were still breakfasting, Hermione was left alone to stare out the window at the monstrous drifts of snow that had piled themselves against Hagrid' hut and the various faces of solid objects on the grounds. The broom-shed that housed the school's Quidditch brooms and flying lessons brooms was nearly buried in the snow, and Hagrid's hut appeared a quaint gingerbread house with mounds of icing. She smiled slightly when the door burst open and Fang shot forth and proceeded to roll in the snow, baying and pawing at the fluffy whiteness.  
  
Her parents had once talked of buying a dog, she remembered. But when she had received her Hogwarts letter, they had thought better of it. There was, after all, no point in buying a dog largely meant for her if she was to be absent from home all but a little over two months of the year. She wished she had one now, to curl up with and bury her face in the soft fur, admitting her woes and worries. Animals never passed judgment; that was the beauty of lesser intelligence.  
  
The door to the Arithmancy classroom opened suddenly, and Professor Vector stepped out. At a far distance, the Arithmancy professor, with her short hair and simple robes, had an androgynous figure that often left observers wondering as to her gender. Up close, however, she had a woman's lilting tone and soft smile; the motherly countenance was welcome for Hermione.  
  
"Miss Granger!" Vector jumped slightly, looking pleased and shocked. "I'm surprised to see you here so early. You've been so good these past few years about socializing with the other students."  
  
Hermione bit back a scowl; she hated hearing references to her solitary, often nearly antisocial habits. She considered it no fault of hers that her interests lay in areas that the typical teenager did not even know existed.  
  
"I'm mulling something over," she explained simply, "and I find it helps to be alone."  
  
"Ah, certainly." Professor Vector was looking at her with observant eyes. "It always does. And you seem to be deep in thought, so I will refrain from disturbing you."  
  
With another smile, she turned and retreated into her classroom to ready things for the day's lesson.  
  
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the window, closing her eyes and letting the cool air and feeling of emptiness wash over her body. Acutely aware that she was alone and unobserved, she was tempted to break down into tears, but forced them back. Crying wasn't going to help anything, and would only elicit others' pity. She never-NEVER-would need others' pity.  
  
"Damn him," she murmured only half-heartedly, thinking at the same time about Harry and Severus. "Damn him!" Harry had infuriated her beyond description, and Severus always seemed to complicate things. She wished that his kisses would make her as brainless as thoughts of romance seemed to make her female peers; but then again, they never had. If anything, they had only caused her to worry further.  
  
* * *  
  
Ron was relieved when Divination class adjourned a bit early. Professor Trelawney, for the first time in five years, actually looked ill; her cheeks were sunken even further into her skeletal, malnourished face and her laborious breaths rattled in her chest.  
  
"Class"-a cough-"I think that, in light of my apparent illness"-a series of coughs-"it would be best if you left me alone." She drew in a shaky breath, placing a hand on the nearest table to steady her wobbly legs. "Therefore, you may leave. Don't forget to complete-"  
  
The class had to resist cheering when their assignment directions were cut off by a series of spasmodic hacking. They rushed out of the room without so much as a glance backward, leaving Professor Trelawney gasping amidst her coughs and attacks that they must wait until she finished reciting their assignment.  
  
"Miserable old bag of bones," Harry spat as they clambered down the trap- door, not caring the slightest bit if anyone, including Trelawney, heard him. "Glad we'll be rid of HER soon. I think I might be more glad to be rid of her than Snape!"  
  
Ron made a noise in the back of his throat that acknowledged he was listening, but only absently. He was rummaging through is book bag, pulling out crumpled papers and throwing them aside to leave them on the floor. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for.  
  
"Hey Harry."  
  
"What?" They turned the corner and came into the corridor leading to the library, which seemed to be the direction Ron was heading.  
  
"I need to ask you a favor. Do you know of any charms that would give me another person's handwriting?"  
  
Harry stopped dead in his tracks and fixed Ron with an incriminating gaze. "No. Why?"  
  
"Just wondering. Listen, I've got some research to do, so I'll see you later, okay?"  
  
Now Harry's eyes were wide. "You mean you're just going to skip Herbology? You can't do that! Sprout'll have to serving detention for three months! You know how picky she is about punctuality and attendance and all that."  
  
"Yeah," Ron said with a resigned grin, "but she doesn't have three more months for me to do detention!"  
  
Harry shook his head, both astounded and appreciating Ron's sense of humor. "All right, I'll cover for you. Bye."  
  
They parted ways then, and Ron was pleased to see when he entered the library that no one-not even Madam Pince-was there. He felt slightly out-of- place; the library seemed so much Hermione's domain that, while he enjoyed being somewhere that seemed a part of her, he felt awkward and unsure of himself, like a young horse taking its first jelly-legged steps. He left his book bag on the nearest table and went immediately to the reference section, flipped open the nearest book, and began to scan.  
  
Half an hour's research eventually rewarded him with what he was looking for. Whispering the words softly to himself a few times for preparation, he unearthed from the bottom of his book bag a fresh sheet of parchment and then pulled out the most important part-an old Potions homework assignment.  
  
Using his fingers dexterously, he ripped through the parchment to separate a tiny piece that contained Snape's scrawled criticisms. The Potions master's writing was distinctive, strong and cramped and oddly tilted, and Ron knew he would never be able to successfully emulate the handwriting without magical assistance.  
  
Placing the tiny scrap of paper onto the fresh sheet, he performed the spell.  
  
"Scriptus imitaeus."  
  
Instantaneously, the miniscule scrap of parchment seemed to dissolve, and was absorbed by the fresh sheet. An odd orange tinge began to spread through his parchment, seeping from the center point where the scrap had lay only seconds before. Hardly daring to believe that he had performed the spell correctly, he placed a quill to the upper left corner of the parchment and wrote Hermione's name.  
  
What issued from the quill, however, was not his own writing; it was the unique scrawl of Snape. Smiling with grim satisfaction, Ron completed his task quickly and efficiently. In his state of reserved anger, there was nothing difficult about the process.  
  
* * *  
  
Hermione returned to the girls' dormitory room after dinner in a slightly elevated mood. Ron had been his usual gregarious self during dinner, which she had expected, but Harry's mood had drastically improved. He seemed to have gotten over his initial abhorrence of her and her secret, and eventually warmed up to her. His behavior toward her had evolved throughout the meal from grudgingly civil to openly friendly, and she was pleased to think that their friendship had been restored, and that it had been strong enough to weather the storm.  
  
Fortunately, no other girls were present in the room, so she happily curled up on her bed. It was when she reached over for her latest novel that she noticed the roll of parchment on her bed-table; it was neatly and precisely sealed with a ribbon, simple and imposing.  
  
Curious, she snatched the parchment and slipped off the ribbon. What unrolled before her was unmistakably Severus' writing. Her cheeks flushing as she wondered what the letter contained, she delved right into its depths- and almost immediately began to cry.  
  
'It was foolish of you,' the letter read, 'to expect that I could be in any way drawn to you other than your mediocre physical attributes. Female students, however, are not usually as foolish and willing as yourself.'  
  
What was he talking about? She choked back a sob and forced herself to continue.  
  
'There is nothing between us, Hermione, and I am shocked that you ever thought there was or could possibly be. I have no potential use for you other than the obvious. You are far too irritating to be useful for much else. Cry if you must, but accept the fact that this entire situation is your fault-you should have known better than to so naively become involved in such a tangled mess.'  
  
The remainder of the letter described in graphic detail his feelings about her intellectual and physical worth. Hermione began to feel as though she were detached from the grief-stricken, crumpled body that lay on her bed, and suddenly was given an outsider's point of view. It WAS her fault; she should never have allowed their situation to escalate to that first kiss, let alone encourage further evolvement. His every accusation was entirely true, and she could never deny it.  
  
But what of his own intentions? He made it perfectly clear in his hateful writing that he had allowed her to remained immersed in his delusions because he had hoped to eventually have some personal gain, some reward. She was not so naïve that she could not guess-and with relative certainty- what he was referring to. It disgusted her, and she disgusted herself; there should have been no need for this letter to be written.  
  
"You bastard!" she screamed, hurling the letter into the bedclothes and burying her face in a pillow. There were no sounds from the common room below to alert her to the other students' entrances; for a while yet, at least, she would have time to herself to cry. There was no longer any point in trying to barricade the flow of tears because it would be impossible. Like a toxin that had been poisoning her body, she allowed the salty water to fall from her eyes while reaching feebly for the letter.  
  
There was no need to verify who it was from; only Severus could, at his best, sting so acidly. His handwriting was perfectly straight and evenly spaced, as though he had either put a great deal of effort and precision into composing the letter, or had been extraordinarily calm and composed while doing so. But of course he was; he had been this entire time. All those instances when she could have sworn she'd seen love in his eyes, it was only expectation.  
  
But she, of course, had failed to be the profitable investment that he had hoped, and that meant she had outgrown her usefulness to him. She was now nothing but a burden, an unpleasant memory that he would no doubt quickly erase from his mind so as to allow him to continue with his wretched life.  
  
What of her?  
  
Don't be so dramatic, she chastised herself, wiping remnants of tears from her eyes minutes later and chokingly stifling her wails and sobs. You don't deserve to feel sorry for yourself. You know it's your fault.  
  
It's not! another voice in her rebelled. It takes two in a circumstance like this.  
  
What would her parents think? The very idea of admitting to them her transgressions brought about a fresh bout of tears and sobs that wracked her body. Her parents, who had loved and supported her for seventeen long and often-rocky years, would never approve of her actions. She could even hear their voices, reverberating through her mind.  
  
She shamelessly seduced a teacher, lied to countless people by pure omission, and was even pitying herself for the sin. Nothing, in her mind, obliterated dignity more quickly and completely than self-pity, and it was exactly that in which she now wallowed. How she could be expected to handle the event she did not know, but it was obvious that she was not going about it in the honorable way.  
  
Honor? She gave the only smile that would be possible in the long few weeks that were soon to come. With her tendency toward melodrama and her inability to control her emotions, she now had no honor left, nothing with which to salvage her wrecked remains from the damp pillow that she cried her sorrows into. 


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Decided it might be a wise idea to repeat my various disclaimers, since everyone else appears to do so at the beginning of their stories. So, the usual-I do not own them, I do not claim to own them, and I intend to infringement whatsoever. I merely borrow; hardly a crime, if you consider the pointless situations in which I place them. Needless to say, Harry Potter and related characters, themes, yada yada yada, are not mine. Don't blame me for anything.  
  
Also: thank you for the many wonderful reviews! Everyone has been incredibly kind and demure (which I appreciate, but I still want constructive criticism), especially considering that I am basically trying to discredit a following here. But just for the record, it's entirely possible that these two would make it together post-graduation. Just because I don't see it happening, doesn't mean it couldn't. Believe me.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
  
  
Parvati waltzed into the dormitory room not twenty minutes later, looking self-satisfied and openly smug. Hermione gave her a narrow-eyed look, wondering what was making the girl seem so supremely pleased with herself.  
  
"What?" she demanded, when it became apparent that Parvati was unable to put an end to her smiling. Hermione surreptitiously wiped the last traces of tears from her lashes and forced her voice to remain on a calm and even note. Parvati hardly noticed; she launched immediately into a lengthy explanation.  
  
"I talked to Dean today," she explained, hardly able to contain her elation. "We talked for over an hour, actually, and he explained to me all about why he broke up with me. He came to me, believe it or not, and said he wanted to talk to me, and so of course I said yes."  
  
Hermione groaned inwardly; somehow, this didn't sound like the kind of conversation in which she would find anything of importance or interest. "And?" she forced herself to prompt when Parvati ceased talking and looked expectantly at her.  
  
"He asked me out again!"  
  
"NO!" Hermione knew she sounded sarcastic and mocking, but Parvati, as usual, was blindly oblivious.  
  
"Yes, he did! He said he missed me, and he wondered if it wasn't a horrible mistake on his part not to show more tolerance and never let me go in the first place."  
  
"And what was your response?" Hermione used her right hand, farthest from Parvati's sight, to inconspicuously shove Severus' letter beneath the mound of pillows on her bed. Her opinion of Parvati's ability to keep secrets was not altogether that low; the letter simply contained such shameful and tender subject matter that she fully intended to make it her mission to keep it hidden from any prying eyes. There would be no crime in never mentioning it to anyone; it would be their little secret, perhaps the very last thing they would share.  
  
Tears formed again, but thankfully, Parvati didn't notice.  
  
"I told him no!" Parvati exclaimed gleefully. "It's not that I'm playing hard to get, or anything, I just think it would look awfully desperate of me to accept his offer two seconds after he said it. He needs more time to think it over, and as long as I look like I have a life and I don't need him, he'll want me to accept even more. Don't you think?"  
  
"Sure," Hermione lied. After six years of watching her peers mature before her very eyes, and viewing the many tangles and broken hearts that love seemed able to cause at its very whim, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe putting on false airs created the entire problem.  
  
"I thought so, too," Parvati agreed. "Obviously. But Lavender doesn't agree with me, she thinks that Dean isn't that desperate and he'll just go to someone else."  
  
"Like her?" Hermione hadn't meant to say it aloud, but recognition flashed in Parvati's eyes, and her mouth opened wide.  
  
"Oh, my God! Remember? In Potions? She said she liked him!" Parvati's gaze suddenly went to her hands, folded gently in her lap, and Hermione could see the whirring thought process that began in her brain. Her day then reached an all-time low: in addition to receiving the most hurtful information of her entire life, she had managed to single-handedly wreck one of the best and most resilient friendships Hogwarts School had ever seen.  
  
"Do you think that's her plan?" Parvati whispered urgently, pivoting on her hands to face Hermione, folding her knees up to her chest. She was curled up like a little child, wide-eyed and fearful, asking for assurance and soft words from a doting mother. Hermione wasn't sure how to respond; she would never have expected that Lavender would use her position as Parvati's primary confidante against her friend, but then again, she was not privy to the true degree of Lavender's feelings for Dean Thomas.  
  
"I don't know." Hermione feared sounding TOO casual, but she also didn't want to alarm Parvati further. "It's possible, I suppose, but I personally don't think she would abuse her power of you in that way. She's you best friend, isn't she?"  
  
Parvati nodded, staring off into space. "Since we were three years old. We grew up together, you know, and we even got our Hogwarts letters on the very same day. Our parents were so proud! They were glad we'd have someone else we knew at Hogwarts, since wizard and witch training isn't exactly easy."  
  
"I'll agree to that," Hermione murmured. "But obviously, as far back as your relationship goes, it would be difficult for her to hurt you that way. Hypothetically speaking, if that is the scenario, I should think she'd realize you would figure it out eventually."  
  
Parvati nodded. "I'm not stupid; she knows that."  
  
"Maybe you should talk to her," Hermione suggested, shifting her own position so she could better face Parvati. Never had she felt so much a teenage girl, giving boyfriend and best friend advice to someone else. She wasn't entirely sure she enjoyed the sensation; it felt unrealistic and vacant, as though it wasn't meant to be part of her.  
  
Parvati sighed resignedly, and nodded slowly, hopping off her bed and heading toward the door. "I'll go talk to her. If I'm direct enough, she'll have to confess; she never was a good liar." A slight giggle escaped her, and Hermione was relieved to catch a glimpse of her better nature. "Maybe it would be best for both of us if we just avoided Dean until we graduate, you know? It's not that far away.. We could survive." And with that she was gone, shutting the door slowly behind her.  
  
Hermione's brain was awhirl with renegade thoughts. Why had Parvati even come to her for advice? Did she know she was there, or was another occupant in the dormitory room completely unexpected? When thoughts of graduation reached her mind, they both excited and depressed her. She would finally be leaving Hogwarts, striking out on her own and forging her independence in a truly adult world... And she would be escaping with intentional cowardice the messiest relationship of her life.  
  
No doubt Severus would be glad to be rid of her, and all the incriminating evidence that she carried, as well. He had no reason to value her presence in the castle anymore, as he had made his true intentions known, and she was now reduced to her previous status: the class know-it-all, a brainy nuisance whom he simply could not stand. Nothing infuriated her more than the thought that her intelligence and her worth were diminished in his eyes; but he had every right to think less highly of them, given her behavior during the past months.  
  
Yet it still nagged at her that he had even allowed her to go through with her supposed seduction in the first place. If he really thought so badly of her as a person and even as a girl (or woman), why had he responded at all? It would have been more in character, given his recently revealed true opinion of her, to turn her away-even ensure that she was reported to the Headmaster, and reprimanded accordingly. Someone who felt that way about her could not possibly be expected to go along with the ruse, even for personal gain. How could she really have disgusted him that much, if he'd allowed her to get away with what she had?  
  
He's frightened, she mused, relieved that the flood of tears had finally abated, and replaced itself with rational, unemotional thought, the kind of contemplation she was familiar and comfortable with. Maybe he just can't stand to be in this situation because he knows it's wrong.  
  
In barely a month, however, it would no longer be wrong; they had only six weeks until graduation. The winter had flown by, with Saint Valentine's Day and Saint Patrick's Day passing at amazing speed. Once she stepped across that platform and accepted her Hogwarts diploma, she would be officially lifted of the title of student; then, their relationship, while socially questionable, would be legally and morally appropriate.  
  
After all, she had passed the legal age of consent; her sixteenth birthday was long past, her eighteenth now approaching. She would be eighteen; he, thirty-eight. The exact twenty-year difference between their respective ages often made her wonder, rather amusedly, what her parents would think if she admitted to them her dirty little secret. They could never prevent her from seeing him; not now that she was older, and especially not once graduation was completed. But they could certainly make their dislike known, and there was no doubt in her mind that 'dislike' would not be nearly strong enough a word to describe their feelings about the relationship.  
  
She sighed, burying her head under a pillow and trying to remove the self- deprecating thoughts from her head. She felt like a character from one of her occasional fiction novels-something in a historical romance, or perhaps a tantalizing murder mystery. It was a convoluted situation at the best, and one which, she began to think, might possibly offer only one way out.  
  
* * *  
  
Harry thoroughly enjoyed Quidditch practice that evening, and returned feeling alert and exhilarated. His mind had long since abandoned its wonderings about Ron's actions in the library, and he gave no thought to what he might potentially have meant when he made his vehement comment about proving to Hermione that she and Snape were not meant to be.  
  
The other members of the team bade him a cheerful goodnight and he branched off to head toward the Gryffindor common room. He did not expect to see Hermione there, and she had taken to completing her homework in the quiet sanctity of the library as of late, but as he grew closer, he fully expected to see Ron there; Ron usually waited politely for Harry to return so they could partake of the homework agony together.  
  
Climbing through the portrait hole, he ambled up the stairs and tossed his Firebolt onto his bed, shed the outer layers of Quidditch robes and returned to the common room in his normal casual clothes. Flopping into a chair, he reached for his Divination book and wondered where Ron was; he was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Hermione ducked under the portrait hole moments later, looking tense and shifty-eyed. Her shoulders were hunched and her head was forward, her hair partially blocking her face, giving her the appearance of one who wishes to make themselves invisible. Frowning slightly, Harry set down his quill and parchment to call after her before she made her way too far up the stairs and walked out of hearing range.  
  
"Hey Hermione!" Seconds passed before he heard her footsteps retreating back the way she had come and her face peered around the edge of the spiraled staircase. He was shocked to see that she WAS tense-very tense; in fact, her skin was red-tinged and blotchy. Had she been crying?  
  
"What's wrong?" he demanded, unable to keep the growing anger from his voice. He had begun to feel more protective about Hermione as the three of them had grown older, and Ron, he knew, felt the same; she rarely wanted their protection, and in fact discouraged it, but it would never have stopped him from exacting his own vengeance on anyone who harmed her.  
  
"Nothing, I'm just a little emotional." She leaned her shoulder against the curved wall around which the staircase wound, yawning and blinking dizzily. "Did you want something?"  
  
"Yeah. Do you know where Ron is? He said he'd help me with Divination; I never understand this damn stuff." He motioned with his open palm to the book and parchment spread before him, littered with fibers from the feather of his quill and errant drops of ink.  
  
"No, I haven't seen him. Sorry." She stared directly at him as though waiting for a protest. "Is that all?"  
  
"Yeah, I was just wondering. Hey-you sure you're all right?" He could see her resist the urge to roll her eyes and take off on one of her long lectures about the injustice of his feeling that he needed to protect her, when she was more than capable of standing up for herself.  
  
"Yes. I told you, I'm fine. Just a bit emotional right now." She could tell he did not totally believe her, and in that moment of increasing desperation, inspiration struck. "You know-my time of the month." She smiled sheepishly when Harry laughed aloud. "I just need to be left alone for awhile."  
  
He grinned. "Okay, no problem. Sorry to bother you." She escaped up the staircase and he heard the soft creaking of the door to her dorm room as she closed it carefully behind her. He wasn't sure he had ever heard Hermione slam a door, and he admired her ability to stabilize her actions even when her moods were emotionally shifting.  
  
Returning to his Divination homework, it was not long before he lost all interest and began to grow frustrated. At nine o'clock, Ron still had not returned, and while Harry was not worried, he was indignant. It was unlike his friend to forget a promise, and he never would have expected that Ron would intentionally refrain from showing up.  
  
Heading back out through the portrait hole, he scoured the halls aimlessly for the sound of Ron's voice. Wandering by chance led him past the Transfiguration room, where he could hear Professor McGonagall talking to a familiar voice.  
  
Ron. The door was ajar, so he pushed it open carefully and stood politely to the side, against the wall. Ron was seated in his usual desk, a stack of parchment in front of him, holding one of the rare red-ink quills owned almost exclusively by Hogwarts professors for correcting papers. Ron made a sloppy checkmark on the parchment in front of him, about halfway down the paper, and scanned the rest of it while he remarked idly to Professor McGonagall about their last assignment. Having finished, he scrawled the final grade at the top of the paper and put it aside, lifting another one from the pile closest to his left arm.  
  
"Ron?" His friend jumped slightly, shedding a few drops of red ink on the new parchment. Professor McGonagall looked up from her position at her own desk, surprised to see Harry standing in her doorway at nine-thirty in the evening.  
  
"Yeah?" Ron raised an eyebrow, trying to sound easygoing and friendly, but Harry sensed somehow that something was amiss.  
  
"What're you doing?" he asked.  
  
"Helping correct papers." Ron shrugged. "I had nothing else to do, so I thought I'd stick around. Professor McGonagall"-he nodded at their teacher, who was viewing the scene absently from her desk-"said she needed help in class today, remember? I figured I'd help her out, 'cause I get extra credit."  
  
"What about Divination?" Harry attempted to speak in an undertone, so that Professor McGonagall would not be able to fully distinguish what he was saying. There was no point in embarrassing Ron by making it known in front of a professor that he was gaining extra credit in one class while skipping assignments in another, despite how boring the latter class actually was.  
  
"What about it?" Ron's blue eyes were piercing him, becoming uncomfortable because his gaze refused to waver. "My grade in there's okay. You know that."  
  
"You promised you'd help me." Harry's voice had risen now, and was beginning to betray some of his annoyance. Ron scribbled down a few check marks, wrote the final grade, and set that parchment aside and proceeded to pick up the succeeding one.  
  
"I know, I know. There'll be time. I'm almost done." And so Harry, leaning against the cold wall of the Transfiguration classroom, waited twenty minutes while Ron finished correcting his share of the papers. Professor McGonagall inquired as to whether Harry would like to earn a few extra points for himself by relieving her of some of some of the papers in her portion, but he civilly declined, saying that he was growing tired and hesitated, since he might make careless mistakes.  
  
"Perhaps you should be doing your Divination work earlier, Harry," she said with her characteristic tone-not openly chastising, but suggestive to the point of prodding. "I would hate to think that you might make careless mistakes when you return to your dorm room to complete it."  
  
Harry forced himself to smile. "As long as Ron helps me, I should be okay," he promised, shifting awkwardly in his corner. Ron's borrowed maroon quill was moving with slow and determined ease across the paper. He was taking his sweet time while Harry fought he urge to pace in the back of the classroom.  
  
When Ron finally finished, Harry nearly dragged him from the room. Calling a hasty goodnight to Professor McGonagall, he pulled his friend back in the direction of the Gryffindor common room, trying to keep his voice calm.  
  
"What's up with you?" He searched Ron's face for a sign of dishonesty, but found none. "You never do extra credit. Why all of a sudden, on the night you promised me you'd help me with Divination?"  
  
"I thought it might be beneficial to my grade," Ron said simply, not meeting Harry's eyes. "My grade in Transfiguration dropped after that last test on Animagi principles and I'd rather have a good grade in Transfiguration than Divination."  
  
"Yeah, so would I-and I'm going to, if you keep breaking your promises!"  
  
"I didn't 'break' it," Ron snapped. "I just took a little longer to get back, that's all. What're you so uptight about, anyway?" He spat the password to the Fat Lady with uncommon violence, and she looked taken aback as she swung forward to admit them into their common room.  
  
"It's just not like you to avoid me." Harry wondered why he hadn't said it before; but it DID seem as though Ron was avoiding him, with his refusal to meet Harry's eyes and his insistence and working at a painfully slow rate correcting papers that, under normal circumstances and his normal disposition, he would not have wanted to correct.  
  
"Where's your bloody homework?" he asked angrily, flopping down on a cushion next to the fireplace. "Let's get it over with so I can get some sleep. I'm tired."  
  
"You're not the only one." Harry tossed the homework to him, and Ron gave it a quick glance before offering some simple suggestions. His face quickly relaxed from suspicious and cross to helpful and self-confident, for he loved giving Harry directions; helping Harry, he was in his element, holding the spotlight for himself and feeling, for a few stray minutes, that he had talents that exceeded his famous best friend's.  
  
"Thanks," Harry said, relieved. Suddenly, the assignment made a great deal more sense, and the visions of Professor Trelawney's quiet wrath the following day disappeared. There was nothing worse than having that green- gauzed, overgrown insect of a woman lecture you in front of the entire class, especially when you knew you could easily snap her in half an be rid of her nerve-grating voice.  
  
"Where's Hermione?" Ron asked absently, trying to look absorbed in his Quidditch periodical, which featured, that particular month, the Chudley Cannons. Harry saw immediately that Ron's interested was feigned; he was on page sixty-eight, and the day before, had read up to page ninety-four.  
  
"Upstairs. She's tired and wants to be left alone." Harry carefully gauged Ron's reaction. Something like pain flashed across his blue eyes, but was quickly replaced with repressed resentment.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Harry was tempted to query why Ron was concerned, and see how his friend managed a nonchalant response, but thought better of it; arousing Ron's ire would only make it more difficult to eventually pry from his whatever was on his mind. And there was quite clearly something on his mind. In fact, he was beginning to think that there was a secret hanging between the three of them that he, as of yet, did not recognize.  
  
* * *  
  
It was fitting, Hermione thought sadly as she traipsed down the stairs to the dungeons, that the day after she received Severus' letter, the Gryffindors were condemned to a session of double Potions. Perhaps he had planned it that way, knowing she would still be recovering from the intense shock of the letter, and that seeing him would only make it more difficult. Such a situation would appeal to his sadistic sense of humor.  
  
The classroom was oddly quiet, she noticed immediately, but she was not-and quite deliberately not-the first person to arrive. Harry and Ron were waiting for her, looking up from their seats and flashing her friendly smiles of greeting. Harry's was bright, but laced with concern in his green eyes; Ron's was brief, and faded quickly. He had been acting strangely lately, she noticed, ever since she'd asked him whether or not Harry had confessed something to him. No doubt the change in his mood was entirely her fault.  
  
Neville sat waiting for her, and no sooner had she taken her seat then he pulled out their homework, due minutes hence, and asked her about a few questions. She was pleased to once again have the chance to use her brain, stretch and flex it to the point of challenging herself and forgetting about her woes. Neville, being her seat partner, had a different form that her, and the questions were different; some, she had never seen.  
  
"The answer to that one's gingerroot," she said, pointing to number eight, "and that one's an infusion of rosemary and hemlock."  
  
Neville shuddered. "I hate this subject," he muttered fervently, scribbling down his hasty answers while looking up constantly to make sure Professor Snape did not notice his last-minute corrections. "It always makes me think of poisons and horrible criminals."  
  
Hermione bit back a laugh; somehow, Severus only added to that seemingly felonious air.  
  
As the class filed in for their lesson, Hermione began to feel hot and nauseous. She had thought that by simply breathing deeply and forcing herself to remain in control over her emotions, she would make it without problem through the class period. But it became apparent that she simply couldn't; the first time Severus' dark eyes landed on her, she felt an urge to cry so powerful that she had to swallow several times and close her eyes to keep her reactions in check.  
  
Was it just her imagination, or wasn't he purposefully over-focusing on her? He asked her question after question, writing down her answers on his blackboard and then discussing them with the class. When she got her first answer wrong, she knew for sure it wasn't her imagination-he was being especially vindictive.  
  
"Miss Granger, I had thought your mental capacity was restored fully," he remarked with a sneer. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Are you forgetting that in that particular region of Asia, that herb is nonexistent?"  
  
Her vision blurred as she looked down at her paper. No, her brain screamed at her, you read the wrong answer. You read number eleven, we're on number twenty-one, you have to look at the ENTIRE number..  
  
"May I suggest you stay attuned to the class?" He was relentless, would never let her have any peace. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your wandering attention."  
  
She bit her lip and looked down at her lap. Yes, the tears were coming now, and she knew in a sudden flash that she was not going to be able to stop them. She was going to burst into tears in full view of the entire Potions class, an unheard-of display of emotion for the stoic and prudish Brain of Gryffindor. It was probably what he had been conniving for all along.  
  
"Hermione?" Neville's worried whisper registered somewhere in the back of her mind, where her brain and her auditory senses were still connected with reality. Her vision had long since gone, and she placed a hand over her eyes, feeling the first sob.  
  
"Hermione!" Neville was shaking her now, trying to draw her hand away from her face. She heard the hasty scrape of chairs and knew that Harry and Ron were making their way toward her, coming to save her from her humiliation.  
  
"Hermione." It was Harry's voice. Through the thick curtain of tears, she could see him kneeling in front of her, his black school robes blocking whatever of her view remained of the classroom. "Hermione, what's wrong?"  
  
Ron was utterly silent, but she could sense him next to her. It was odd for Harry to be the one showing the open concern; usually, he remained on the sidelines and let her fend for herself, while Ron ignored her irate demands for independence and stood up for her in battle.  
  
"I'm taking her to the Headmaster, Professor." Harry said the sentence with such absolutely conviction that Severus offered no protest. She could no longer see him-in fact, she could hardly see anything-but she could hear the soft tap of his shoes as he walked forward, muffled by the worried whispers of the Gryffindors and the snickers of the Slytherins.  
  
Harry drew her to her feet and placed an arm around her shoulders, trying to steady her. She kept her watery gaze locked on the floor, aware of every single step they took in the long journey toward the door of the Potions classroom. From behind her, Severus' voice issued loudly and angrily as he demanded silence of the classroom, and that they return to their studies despite the 'interruption.'  
  
'So I'm an interruption?' she wanted to scream. 'You should have thought of that before!' But the words could not be formed with her lips amidst the pitiful moans and sobs.  
  
Harry spoke nothing as they made their way up the stairs toward the main area of the castle. She wondered idly whether he would take her to Dumbledore or to the infirmary; it was far more likely he would go to Dumbledore, provided they were able to find the elusive wizard. He was often absent from his office, attending to various matters in the castle and surrounding grounds. She wasn't sure she could face Madam Pomfrey's incessant questions right then, so Dumbledore seemed the best option.  
  
Approaching the gargoyle, Harry rattled off any and every name of candy he could think of. When nothing worked, Hermione managed to quell her choking long enough to gasp, "Licorice twist." The gargoyle sprang to the side and Harry looked at her in awe.  
  
"How'd you know that?" She shrugged, not meeting his eyes, and he dropped the matter; he knew better than to pose too many questions at such a time.  
  
Fortunately, Dumbledore was seated at his desk, papers strewn about in front of him, next to him, around him-the entire area was a total mess. Hermione was surprised that she managed to register the room's state of cleanliness in her condition. Never had she felt so completely raw and exposed.  
  
"Dear Merlin." Dumbledore rose from his seat, shedding a flurry of papers from his lap. "Miss Granger! Whatever happened?"  
  
Hermione looked pleadingly at Harry, still unable to speak, and Harry was forced to answer for her. "She just started crying in Potions." His voice had the terse tone of someone who was forcing themselves to refrain from saying what they really wanted to say, and she knew that he was fighting the awful temptation to make a comment about Severus' tyranny. "She answered a question wrong, and Professor Snape said some things to her, and." He gestured helplessly at the girl before him.  
  
Dumbledore walked rapidly around the corner of his majestic desk and took Hermione in his arms, leading her over to a chair, and handed her a handkerchief. "It's all right," he said soothingly, motioning for Harry to have a seat nearby. "Dry your eyes and tell us what happened."  
  
Hermione knew she couldn't tell; she could never tell, and what was the point? It was over now; the entire situation had gone to hell, every last bit of it, and she was left with a highly volatile Severus and pleasant memories that, by all rights, she should have regretted, which only made her feel all the more awful about herself.  
  
"I don't know," she managed to whisper, glad of the material with which to dry her eyes. As her vision returned and her body slowed its grief-induced convulsing, she regained some of her control and her ability to speak. "I just.I've been very emotional lately, and." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, causing the last of the tears to fall.  
  
"Has this anything to do with graduation?" Dumbledore's voice was inquisitive but not to the point of being prying, and she was grateful, though not sure how to express it.  
  
"Maybe. I'm just.very emotional." She knew no other way to describe her state of mind without raising dangerous questions.  
  
"It was Professor Snape," Harry said emphatically from across the room. "She answered the question wrong and he embarrassed her. He started talking about how her mental capacity was still impaired, and she should try to remember tha-"  
  
"Harry, you may return to your class." Dumbledore's voice was firm and resolute. "When the time comes to delve further into this matter, I will be asking you and your classmates for their version of events. Now is not the time for editorials."  
  
Harry looked furious, and stalked from the room. Hermione reached out a hand briefly, trying to stop him, but he could only slow down just enough to grasp her hand in his and give it a reassuring squeeze. She knew it meant that he would be back to visit her later, and would not leave her alone for any longer than was absolutely necessary.  
  
"I think perhaps some rest would be best," Dumbledore said, chuckling good- naturedly at his own unintentional rhyme. His voice was lilting, as usual, and somehow had the comforting effect of music. "I'll escort you to the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey will provide you with somewhere to sleep. And some food, I think. It would help calm the dizziness if you had something in your stomach."  
  
The thought of food, drink, and Madam Pomfrey made Hermione's stomach roil, but she remained silent and followed Dumbledore with stumbling feet through the castle corridors. Madam Pomfrey, in a shocking instance of empathy, restrained herself from asking Hermione questions and wordlessly handed her hot tea, some plain toast, and a warm blanket. Hermione drank her tea, munched a few bites of toast, and abandoned the offered bed to curl up in a choice spot in front of the fireplace. The warmth seeped into her with agonizing slowness; she felt as though her body would never escape from the cold prison.  
  
* * *  
  
Severus tossed aside the last parchment and felt the tell-tale signs of a horrible headache entering his head. With a muttered curse, he threw his wand aside as well and headed toward the corner for a bottle of brandy; alcohol might partially numb the pain. He had never been an alcoholic, but often thought longingly of the relief it might bring. Memories of his own father's drinking problem always stopped him, however, and he knew he would never be able to bring himself to totally escape the world with drinking.  
  
Two shots of brandy and the fireplace seemed to help. Gollum offered her companionship, curling up around his shoulders, but he was in no mood for the cool feeling of scales on his skin and removed her instantly. She gave a threatening hiss, but he was unafraid; she would never hurt him. Resituating herself in front of the fireplace, only inches from the flames, she, too, found comfort in the warmth and gentle crackle of the burning logs. It was the closest to silence that he had been fortunate enough to be exposed to in days.  
  
Hermione's sudden emotional distress in Potions class had shocked him. For months now, she had borne his scathing insults with perfectly executed indignation, but nothing even bordering on hurt. He wondered if perhaps his words, coupled with the knowledge of their true association, had finally been too much for her-if she could no longer stand kissing and shrinking from the same man. In that event, it was perfectly understandable; he only wished she would have warned him sooner.  
  
Questions were bound to surface, asked, most likely, by Dumbledore, who favored Hermione above all other students. Even Potter couldn't compare to Hermione's value, and Dumbledore would never allow an injustice to reign unpunished over her life. Hermione was a strong and resilient girl, he knew, more than capable of overcoming a period of depression than anyone he knew; but Dumbledore would never give her the chance. He would take charge, as he always did.  
  
Severus supposed it would be best to admit that maybe he had gotten a bit carried away with chastising Hermione, but to enforce the fact that he had never imagined it would have such an effect on her. Dumbledore was aware of his reputation as an often very malicious teacher, and extremely strict, but knew him overall to be a gifted instructor. A brief lapse into cruelty would not cost him his job, or even a few weeks of pay; only precious minutes of silence spent under lecturing and scrutiny.  
  
Minerva would express, yet again, her concern that he was 'too demanding' of his pupils; and Sprout, damn her, would go on another one of her tirades about how wonderful 'the Granger girl' was, and how he did her such an injustice by refusing to acknowledge her talents of genius caliber that were obvious to everyone but him. He wasn't sure he could withstand another one of her recitations without snapping something he would undoubtedly regret later on.  
  
For the first time in years, he thought longingly of taking a vacation, escaping from the monotony of his life and visiting somewhere distant and quiet, far from the prying eyes of any world, wizarding or Muggle. Would he take Hermione with him? No, no, that would never work-her parents would file a lawsuit, act out of complete irrationality, and maybe even murder him. Most likely, they'd heard an abundance of unflattering tales about him and his classroom persona; he had no intention of meeting them before necessity demanded.  
  
Would he ever? It had never crossed his mind that his relationship with Hermione could possibly become so serious as to lead to the dreaded 'meeting the parents.' The thought almost made him smile.  
  
Almost. Because at that exact moment, a searing pain erupted from his arm, and he looked down to see the Dark Mark begin to glow with its evil summons. 


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Using Ron as a tool is cheating, huh? Well, I hate to force the recollection upon you, as it is so cliché, but as the saying does remind us, "all's fair in love and war."  
  
And it is cliché-don't say I didn't warn you. ( Have patience, please. I'm perfectly aware that using the envious and rather rash natures of her friends would make for a weak and pointless plot-I have other devices in mind. But you must WAIT and READ.  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
The wind was unbearably cold, but it never crossed his mind to summon anything along the lines of a cloak or protective outer-garment; he dashed from the castle with at a speed which he would never have thought himself capable otherwise, covering the cold ground on rapidly moving feet. Gasping in an effort to control his breathing-close to hyperventilation due to stress, both physical and emotional-he closed the Hogwarts gate behind him. It took not three steps before he crossed the distance necessary and was able to Disapparate.  
  
The whirlwind feeling of flying through space and time was quite often overwhelmingly frightening; but in the anticipation of what awaited him upon his arrival at his Master's side, Severus found himself incapable of registering anything else. The interim period of travel was all too short, and before he was ready-if, indeed, he would ever be ready-his feet landed firmly on the marshy ground.  
  
The moor, he realized with surprise, hardly daring to glance to and fro, but discovering that his curiosity overrode his fright. The outlines of the expansive, dreary moor were hardly visible in the stark of night, and dusk had long since fast. Breathing shallowly, he clutched convulsively at his arm and walked forward, willing himself to call forth the talent and energy necessary to complete his task.  
  
He knew well enough that a late-night rendezvous had been scheduled among the Death Eaters for that very day, but Voldemort was not supposed to be present. Occupied elsewhere, their Master had promised them his time would not be spent in vain, and that he would return to them harboring tails of delicious torture and gore.  
  
Grasping again at his arm, he steeled himself against the pain that continued to simmer, though only a shallow reflection of the degree that had assaulted him moments before. Only one explanation remained-and ever had been present-for the active burning of the Dark Mark: Voldemort had summoned him. Thus Voldemort, presumably, would not be there.  
  
Crunching through half-dead plants covered in frost, his mind was rushing fluidly to reassure his body. While it was true the Dark Lord could have contacted him from his supposed whereabouts elsewhere, the fact remained that, to the best of his knowledge, Apparition would only serve to bring him to the side of his Master. It seemed to him, through vague recollection, that the Death Eaters had mentioned meeting in a new location, but had they meant the moor?  
  
They were nowhere to be seen, and the farther he traveled, the wearier-and, paradoxically, more edgy and alert-he grew. Precaution and concealment were always vital, but there was nothing to substantiate their missing presence this long. The jarringly familiar semicircle of long, sinister black robes should have entered his sight by now, but the landscape that surrounded him revealed nothing of the sort.  
  
Pausing in his tracks, he considered his options. He dared not leave; what would have otherwise been the probability of arousing Voldemort's ire would, in that case, become a veritable guarantee. An upset Voldemort was nothing short of petrifying, conveyed with sadistic flair through his abnormal gaze and equally awesome power.  
  
"Severus."  
  
The voice issued as though from the sky, rendering him without use of his senses for a good five seconds. As life seemed to seep slowly back into his body, he became aware that the moor seemed suddenly drafty and far more alive than it had moments before, as though swirls of barely perceptible fog had moved in and were congregating about his body.  
  
Realization dawned, and his body tensed in response. Rotating on his heel, he turned slowly to meet the face of the man he now knew stood directly behind him. The moorland swept by in his gaze and he prayed instantaneously that somehow, it would all be a dream-his Master would not be there, and he would wake up a few puzzled moments hence, lying comfortably in his fireside chair in the dungeon lair he called home.  
  
But of course, Fate has not mercy-only a sense of black irony.  
  
"Ah, Severus." The voice should not, by any means, have been given so generously to the likes of a mere human being; the sheer power and terror of hearing such an eerie, spectral sound was enough to leave many immobile.  
  
"You have decided to join me."  
  
"My Lord," he croaked, hoping his voice would not betray his fear, "I should never dismiss any opportunity to bask in your presence."  
  
It was these astronomical compliments-so very different from Severus' usual sardonic remarks-that made the nearly nonexistent lips smile in a way no other Death Eater could make possible. Severus was one of Voldemort's favorites 'toys,' as Hermione had so aptly delineated his position; one with a sense of humor so similar to his own that he considered them far closer than master and servant. It was only in through Voldemort's perversely distorted view of morality that he had been able to accomplish what he had; he might otherwise have found himself in Severus' position, living with nothing but his superior intelligence and his wicked tongue.  
  
"You have always been a favorite, Severus," his Master informed him, the midnight blue robes in which he was adorned drifting in a ghostlike manner at his skeletal sides. "I could never help but pay you excessive attention. You appreciated it?"  
  
"Always, My Lord. It was-it is-my honor." It had just struck him that his Master was speaking in the past tense. That could not possibly anything short of a death omen.  
  
"I was proud of you, Severus," Voldemort continued, beginning to pace slowly in a circular motion, far too close for comfort. His eyes, Severus noticed, were cast toward the sky, their slits making him seem almost feline in complement to his lithe, flowing movement. "I had often considered making you an apprentice, for you had in abundance what the others lacked. You had the intelligence-such a rare gift, Severus-and the motivation. But you had subtlety, creativity, intuition.all invaluable assets."  
  
"Thank you, My Lord." His tone nearly betrayed him as he began to feel the telltale signs of trembling in his lower limbs. His physiological functions had responded immediately and initiated the renowned 'fight or flight' response as he awaited the battle that could lead to his demise.  
  
"Ah, Severus." There was nothing welcoming in Voldemort's tone, none of his usual appreciative candor. Rather, he spoke of Severus' remarkable attributes without any trace of true sincerity.  
  
He was mocking him.  
  
"You could have been my apprentice, dear boy." Reminiscent of Dumbledore, Severus thought despairingly; he was being addressed by Dumbledore's opposite, a demon in retaliation to the saint. "You could have followed my hallowed footsteps."  
  
His death was inevitable; it was difficult to suppress a derisive laugh.  
  
"You would have been my successor, Severus, continued the business. Our world could have been purged of the filth that surrounds us, and your name would have gone down in the history books. Perceptions would have altered, Severus; views would have changed when the others realized that you had committed not an atrocity, but a true service to the magical world. You would have been revered. You would have been a hero."  
  
Severus could no longer contain himself. "You.speak oddly, My Lord. It is my interpretation that you have lost this.faith in me."  
  
"Irrevocably, Severus. Completely."  
  
He had been standing with his back toward Severus' face, staring at the stars as he spoke philosophically of Severus' talents and what might have, under different circumstances, come to pass. Visualizing his name in blessed print had given Severus quite a jolt, kicking forward his ambitious instincts. He had to remind himself of the noble reasons that had brought him to the barren moorland and the type of events for which he really wanted credit. Genocide was not among them.  
  
"I.I do not know what to say, My Lord. My sincerest apologies. I had no idea that I am.lost to your cause." As Voldemort turned slowly, Severus forced himself to probe those inhuman eyes for some sign of weakness, humor, or lingering affection. Forcing the Dark Lord to recall his past appreciation, Severus recognized, might prove to be his only possible defense.  
  
"You are indeed, Severus, though it is through no fault of mine." The gaze seemed to glow now, increasing in luminosity; the red hues were highlighted against the dilated black pupils, giving the appearance that there really was the proverbial fire in the eyes. "It is entirely your own fault. You betrayed me, my boy."  
  
The blatant response had Severus taken aback; he resisted the compulsion to flinch and instead clasped his hands to keep them from wringing or shaking of their own accord. "I know not what you speak of, Master. Perhaps you are.mistaken?"  
  
Voldemort had always followed such insinuations immediately with some form of torture that tossed the perpetrator dangerously closed to the edges of either insanity or death. Severus had fully expected such an attack to be launched, but his Master seemed strangely calm; his wand remained neatly pocketed in his robes, the very end of the shaft just visible against the dark fabric.  
  
"Come, Severus. Let us not speak in circles. We are both men and mature enough to handle this situation, no?" Voldemort stepped closer, and Severus sensed for the first time the feral palpation of powers he could not fathom. Invisible tentacles seemed to emanate from the man across from him, poking, prodding, searching for information he would not willingly provide. "We are only wasting time. You make me impatient. I want a confession."  
  
"My Lord, I must repeat, with regret, but I know not of what you speak."  
  
The voice was a full growl now, and one hand darted forward to grab Severus' robes. The protrusive bones that seemed to rear from beneath his skin only further accentuated the contradiction that was Voldemort. He possessed a level of strength-though it was clearly magically enhanced-for which no one would have given him credit.  
  
"Last chance, Severus, or I will elaborate to you the many reasons behind my accusation. My evidence is not circumstantial, I assure you; you have been caught, and you will be punished accordingly."  
  
Severus' feet were returned to terra firma, most likely in an effort to grant him some level of security. Admitting one's treason to Voldemort was by no means a simple task.  
  
Was a confession against his rules, those the Ministry had laid before him when he turned himself in, hoping for death? Unable to kill himself, Severus had offered information in return for a peaceful death at the hands of a magical executioner; he knew what his crimes warranted, and had been unafraid of what lay ahead of him. They had considered him useful, however, but the bulk of the job was not meeting Voldemort but continuing the exchange of information while remaining within the regulations set for him.  
  
A confession had never been considered-up until he had been given to believe otherwise, it had been the commonly accepted that, should his true loyalty be revealed, Voldemort would dispose of him then and there, no questions asked. Severus himself had never thought it to be within the Dark Lord's capabilities to withstand a confrontation tête-à-tête with the guilty party and refrain from committing murder before the words were delivered.  
  
Dare he confess? It was ludicrous to imagine that he would somehow escape with his life, but in that unlikely event, he did not in any way long to undergo the same treatment at the Ministry of Magic.  
  
"I beg of you, My Lord, I don't understand." He wished desperately that he could force himself to cry, but as terrified as he was, such an overtly emotional display was far beyond his reach. The endorphins flowed, but never the tears. "I want only to serve you with the truth-"  
  
"Spare me the whining, Severus," his Master hissed, and Severus was propelled backward until he landed painfully on his back with the sensation that he had cracked several vertebrae. Voldemort wasted no time in appearing at his side to continue the onslaught. "You always did have a bitchy side to you, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
The wand had exited the lovely pocket and now hovered in combat position before him, suddenly devoid of the nonthreatening look it had possessed earlier. Severus decided that the best answer was, in this case, a silent one.  
  
"You were supposed to agree," he roared, and the Cruciatus was cast before Severus had a chance to leap up or in any direction.  
  
Pain flashed through him as thought the very marrow of his bones were on fire, rocketing itself through the veins and byways of his body until it reached the brain at record speed. There, it was passed through the brain and traveled to every nerve, every cell, and every bit of substance he had. Consumed entirely by the agony, he had not even the mental awareness to long for death.  
  
"Welcome back." The voice had long since averted his own perception of its sound from eerie to inhumanely evil. "I know what you've done, Severus. All these years, you've been talking to them, haven't you?"  
  
Blood was flowing from his nose and ears, across his lips and into his mouth. Severus could not move his arms or legs, still paralyzed with the aftershock of the Cruciatus Curse, and he was unable to answer for fear of sputtering and choking on his own blood.  
  
"Answer me!" The wand appeared again, and his lips moved wordlessly. "Very well," the Dark Lord sneered with a venomous caliber worthy of Severus' own gifts. "If you refuse to answer, then you shan't need that tongue. I will cut it out for you."  
  
How will I explain? Severus wondered frantically when he realized that the wand was morphing into a knife, a trick that should have been impossible. A trick of his eyes?  
  
But you will not need to explain.  
  
"Useless, that tongue," Voldemort whispered, reaching one hand down toward Severus' face. "Wagging, treacherous thing. You shouldn't have told them, Severus." One finger was on his upper lip, and before long, all fingers were pulling violently to open his mouth. "You shouldn't have told them anything."  
  
"No!" The strength to sit forward and call his vocal cords into action came from reserves he had never imagined he had, but the instant he sat upright, life seemed to flow once more, though sluggishly, through his body. The poisonous aftereffects of the Curse would be long in leaving him, but activity would speed the process.  
  
"You will talk, then?" The knife had retreated, but just slightly; it was still in the perfect position to gouge any part of his body as he half-sat, half-lay, prostrate before Voldemort.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Excellent," the voice rumbled, but no bony hand appeared to help him to his feet. He was left to lie in rapidly growing pools of blood. "Tell me everything, Severus. Everything. The longer you talk," he added with soft animosity, "the longer I let you live."  
  
"A most generous gesture," Severus spat back, unable to contain himself. The eyes flashed but the knife diminished back into the long, slender wand, and Voldemort faded quickly from angered to amused.  
  
"You always did have an acidic tongue, Severus, and a wit to match. How did you do it? How have you fooled me all these years?" He seemed to thirst for the knowledge, as though Severus held locked within his mind a secret that would provide the skills necessary to win the ongoing war. It was laughable, really, how anxious he was to hear the details of what had been, for the most part, a job of merely holding down another job-and one far more ordinary.  
  
"It was not difficult," Severus muttered through a mouthful of blood and saliva, wanting to spit the foul taste from his mouth, but fearing it would be seen as flaunting disrespect and earn him another bout with the Cruciatus. "I've spent the majority of these years at Hogwarts. You know that."  
  
"Naturally. It placed you within Dumbledore's grasp." The word issued from the mouth of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with the same tone in which others spoke his own name, both fear and disgust. "He's had access to you all these years, while I've lay in half-lived stupor." He glared down at Severus with a ferocity that seemed almost parental in its chastising manner. "Has he brainwashed you? Would you even know?"  
  
He's rationalizing, Severus thought, suddenly far more alert. Perhaps there was a way out of this yet. Voldemort did not want to see the crown of his favorite servant thrown upon the floor with a cry of treason.  
  
"I would not know, My Lord. To my recollection, it was I who approached Dumbledore." There was no sense in lying, he knew, for if Voldemort [by some miracle] forgave him, such lies would only be discovered in the time hence, and perhaps with far more disastrous consequences than those that currently faced him.  
  
"Of course, of course. Your guilty conscience." Voldemort shook his head, twirling his wand through his fingers with the dexterity of one who had been practicing for years, not locked away in the body of a decrepit monstrosity. "You conscience will plague you, Severus, until the day you die." A smirk. "But, in my generosity, I can perhaps make that day less elusive.and much sooner."  
  
"Would be better than your interrogation," Severus mumbled through lips saturated with blood that felt odd and too malleable.  
  
The remark was ignored in favor of yet more inquiries. "What have you told him, Severus? What of my secrets?"  
  
"I'm afraid that's classified information."  
  
The pain returned, snapping him nearly in half as his body flattened in a response similar to that of the stages of rigor mortis. His body became stiff as his limbs wrenched in convulsion. He could not clasp his fingers around the frozen ground to keep himself steady or still-coherent thought was not possible in the climatic clutches of an Unforgivable Curse.  
  
When the ordeal finally ended, he knew numbly that Voldemort was lashing out recklessly, kicking at any available part of his body. Several blows caught him in the ribs and across the head, loosing more blood from its shaken confines. Black shapes began to appear through the waterfall of sweat and blood that ran down his face and he remembered the words at their last meeting.  
  
'.completely new location,' Napps had informed them in an almost gleeful whisper. 'More secluded. He has promised us a new one.'  
  
Up until then, the memory had escaped him, but he realized now with sickening acceptance that he was 'the new one,' their latest victim. It was logical, he knew, in the loosest and most terribly twisted sense of the word-there was no finer way to drive a stake through Voldemort's heart than to murder his prized pupil; his protégé; the needful child whom he had guided down the path to redemption.  
  
They circled in closer as Voldemort's personal beating concluded, and he was only dimly aware of what the Dark Lord said to his followers.  
  
"Do not kill him-he has a message to deliver, incapacitated as he may be." He could hear the high-pitched, sadistic laugh that echoed through the still air of the early morning. "Words may not be.necessary."  
  
Appreciative chuckles rippled through the semicircle of followers as Voldemort stepped forward to address Severus for one last time.  
  
"My best regards to Dumbledore," he murmured, his lips only a few inches from Severus' ear, which was nearly indistinguishable in the blood. "He and I shall be seeing much of each other in the days to come."  
  
* * *  
  
"When you have finished, you may hand in your papers," Madam Pomfrey called out, sounding as though she was rooted to Severus' desk chair with lethargy. Acting as substitute teacher in Potions class was a task few were up to-being successful at actually teaching an entire lesson was on another tier entirely.  
  
Professor Snape's absences, few and far between as they were, quickly became occasions for partying and rejoicing. The students clapped and whistled in pure delight when Madam Pomfrey walked into the room three days earlier and announced that she would be filling Professor Snape's position until he was able to return to his duties. She had given no reason for his empty place, save that he was 'indisposed.'  
  
Hermione had frowned, but she no longer had to brush errant tears from her eyelashes at the simple mention of his name. It was a relief, but a feeling deep within her nagged constantly at her heart. While she knew their relationship had been rent irreparably, she yearned to know his whereabouts. Something about his behavior the last few weeks they had been together bespoke of anxiety and depression, as though he was squirming under the burden of upcoming troubles.  
  
That he had left so abruptly bothered her to no end. There could be no reasonable explanation for his sudden leave-taking that did not pose danger to him, and while she knew she should react bitterly and vindictively, she fretted on his behalf.  
  
"Madam Pomfrey?" The other students had filed from the room, the sounds of their footsteps echoing through the moldy dungeon floors as they contentedly approached the stairways that would lead them back to the place they belonged. "May I speak with you?"  
  
"Of course, dear." Lines appeared to have sprouted nearly overnight, creasing the older woman's face mercilessly. Hermione had a sudden urge to reach out and hug the teacher, to comfort her, but she knew not how. An adult offering condolences to a student with an unknown problem was one thing, but she had not the slightest idea what vexed Madam Pomfrey, and how she could possibly be of any comfort.  
  
"Where is Professor Snape?" Madam Pomfrey's eyes shot upward, though her face remained bent, and her pen, poised above a worksheet, sat inert. "I know you said earlier that he was 'indisposed,' and you clearly didn't want to give any more details, but.I really need to know where he is."  
  
"And why is that?" Madam Pomfrey inquired as politely as she could manage, laying the pen aside and folding her hands in a manner emulative of Dumbledore. "It would be an invasion of Professor Snape's well-deserved privacy if I revealed to you his whereabouts."  
  
"I know, but." A single pair of feet approached, and both could hear clearly the rapid and intent step which they conveyed through the resounding echoes in the hallway. Hermione hastened to finish her explanation, but Madam Pomfrey's mind was elsewhere.  
  
".there's something I really, really must discuss with Professor Snape, and I realize that he is busy and he certainly deserves a holiday, but it's imperative and I really can't afford to-"  
  
"Poppy." Dumbledore's voice cracked and Hermione whirled around to find herself face-to-face with the most unkempt and discomposed version of the Headmaster she had ever seen. His robes were streaked with a substance that suspiciously resembled blood and his eyes were equally red. Dirt streaked his hair and face in long strokes and caked his hands, usually immaculately clean and well-kept.  
  
"He's back," Dumbledore finished, and Madam Pomfrey was instantly on her feet, one hand clapped to her mouth. Hermione gaped in unabashed astonishment as tears flooded Madam Pomfrey's face while she struggled to make her way, stumbling, maneuvering around the desk to follow the Headmaster.  
  
"Oh, thank Merlin-really, Albus-damn it! How does he work in this classroom?" she shrieked, and Dumbledore was forced to pull her into a calming embrace. She shook violently and Hermione could see that she was struggling, to no avail, at regaining her usual businesslike, brusque composure.  
  
"Albus, is he alive?" Dumbledore's eyes flickered for just one moment to Hermione, searching her face, and the lines of his lips became thin and grim, but he obliged the shaking mediwitch with the words she wanted desperately to hear.  
  
"He's alive, Poppy, but just barely." He was leading her, one hand on her shoulders, toward the doors. "He needs your help, Poppy, now more than ever before."  
  
Hermione took a hesitant step forward. Severus had always mentioned how many times Voldemort subjected him to the Cruciatus Curse at the meetings, simply to play with him in the unspeakably aghast manner only Voldemort could manage. Who healed his wounds when he returned?  
  
Dumbledore was rushing Madam Pomfrey through the door while she attempted to walk steadily, a difficult task while her vision was blurred through the tears. "Go, Poppy, please." Albus Dumbledore was not a cold man, nor stoic, but he had never been one to show raw emotion. Hermione was moved close to tears simply by the sight of them.  
  
Could it be Severus? If he had been summoned to a Death Eater meeting, he would have been tortured, cursed, wounded-had they thought him dead?  
  
"Headmaster-"  
  
"Go to your next class, Miss Granger. I do not want to see you down here without the supervision of your teacher again." His voice was more acrid than she had ever heard it, a tone she had thought him incapable of using. "You have no reason to remain here."  
  
She brushed past him as quickly as she could, tripping over the hem of her robes and clutching at her books to keep them from falling. By the time she arrived aboveground and passed through the main portion of the castle, she was running, though not because she feared arriving late for Care of Magical Creatures.  
  
* * *  
  
The only logical place they could house Severus during his recuperation period-if he was still alive, she reminded herself-was in the hospital wing. But it had been effectively closed off to all Hogwarts personnel save for Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore himself; even a few of the teachers complained audibly that they had been denied access into the infirmary while escorting injured students, and had been diverted to the Great Hall to meet with Madam Hooch and her sports medicine training instead.  
  
Hermione had tried in vain to feel no remorse for Severus' pain. She had reread his letter a good twenty times, letting each and every word seep into her and poison her with its maliciousness; she no longer blamed herself for their breakup, but only him. He had, in his insecurity and his strict moral code, abandoned all pretenses and lashed out at her in an effort to ignore his own responsibility. He carried enough as it was, she reminded herself, without the added burden of knowing that he was involved in a relationship that broke the school rules.  
  
However, try as she might, she could not banish him from her mind, and the feelings that flooded her at the recollection of his name were never of the bitter variety. She longed to see him again-longed for someone to reassure her that he was well and would heal fine-and wanted to hear his voice just one last time speaking not in reprimand, but in gentle contemplation. She had glimpsed a side of the resident Hogwarts demon that no one else had been allowed to see. She doubted if even Dumbledore himself had heard Severus musing some of the things he had with her companionship, and she felt both honored and enamored by him.  
  
I am not in love with him, she had reaffirmed to herself when she came close to crying in History of Magic at the mention of Voldemort. Nevertheless, she did love him, as much or more than she loved anyone else she whose name she could mention, and his death would elicit a period of mourning unlike anything she could imagine. It did not take her brilliance to know that.  
  
Sneaking through the hallways while the other students were at dinner, she was forced to hold her breath and exhale slowly in rhythm to remain quiet enough that she would not be heard. It had been her original desire to snatch Harry's Invisibility Cloak from his clothes chest, but as Neville Longbottom had been working on homework in solitude in the boys' dormitory, she would have had to cause nearly impossible diversionary events to gain control of the Cloak. In her worried and nauseous state, it would have been impossible-so she crept instead.  
  
The path to the infirmary seemed unbearably long when she could not escape from her wonders of what-or who-she would find lying in the hospital beds that warranted complete isolation from the entire school. Madam Pomfrey had long since ceased to substitute teach for the Potions class-Dumbledore himself had begun to fill Snape's position, and was an abysmally poor teacher at best; but she had an inkling that it was due less in part to his skills and more to his state of mind.  
  
Severus was not the type of man who would relent easily to others' offers for healthcare; as little as she knew him, she was as much an authority as they had, and for him to be under Madam Pomfrey's care did not speak lightly of whatever injuries had been inflicted upon him. Hardly anything short of death would have landed him in the infirmary without a fight both violent and valiant on his part.  
  
Just as her fingers brushed the doorknob that led into the hospital wing, she remembered that some strange spell had been cast to ward off visitors. Wary of what would occur should she turn the knob, she restrained herself and ducked into the darkness cast by a nearby suit of armor. Fortunately, not being especially tall for a female, she fit perfectly into its shadow, her back flush with the wall. Her unfamiliarity with the spell necessitated that she wait until someone with that power-or immunity, whichever it should be-opened the door for her.  
  
She was not long waiting, mercifully, for within ten minutes, she could distinguish voices from behind the heavy oak door. It swung open at a sluggish pace, and Madam Pomfrey's hand on the doorknob was just visible. She was speaking rapidly with Dumbledore, but it was exceedingly difficult to discern their words with the rapid beating of her own heart and the blood pounding in her ears.  
  
".may be weeks," Madam Pomfrey was saying, and by the sudden appearance of flying hair, she knew the nurse was shaking her head in either derision or dismay. ".in an unbelievable state. Truly, Headmaster, I can't figure out how he lived."  
  
Hermione gulped, too loudly, and slapped a silent hand over her face, hoping it would partially muffle the sound of her all-too-audible breathing. She could envision the ensuing scene should she accidentally make contact with the armored suit in front of her; most likely, once the initial resounding crash had ceased to echo, they would hear the sounds of the helmet rolling down the hall like a decapitated head..  
  
"He's a strong man, Poppy.never gets credit." Tears threatened to fall. He is, she wanted to scream, physically and mentally, but you just can't give him credit. ".best if we did not mention this to the students."  
  
You hardly need to tell anyone that, Hermione thought irritably. The teachers had been both delicate and effective in skirting the issue of Professor Snape's whereabouts up until then.  
  
".keep it locked until further notice," Dumbledore finished, and once again, the sight of a few curls of Madam Pomfrey's unruly hair could be seen peeking from outside the partially open door. This time, she had to be nodding in assent and obedience. "The students may grow curious; they always do, with those inquisitive minds."  
  
"I quite agree," Madam Pomfrey assured him in a kind but brisk voice, and Hermione wanted to reach out and yank the woman by her insufferable hair, throw her to the side, burst through the door, run down the aisle-  
  
"Thank you, Poppy. Now"-Dumbledore heaved an exhausted sigh, twirling his long beard around his fingers in anxiety and contemplation-"perhaps you would join me for dinner? I'd much like you to make an appearance.other teachers are growing just as curious." His voice lowered again when the topic of discussion veered toward the other faculty.  
  
"I'd be glad to." Like a true gentleman, Dumbledore offered her his arm and a warm, inviting smile. They turned to walk down the hall, Madam Pomfrey carelessly leaving the door to slam its way shut behind them.  
  
Hermione darted forward soundlessly, and slipped a hand between the door and the doorjamb. It hurt intolerably when the heavy door put pressure against her fingers, and she stifled a scream. When she noticed their stride slowing, she slipped through the door as quickly as she could and let it slam shut, as Madam Pomfrey had intended it to do. Unbeknownst to her, the two in the hallway turned only once, vaguely observed the fully closed door, and continued on their way to the evening meal.  
  
The room was softly lit by candles on the few tables, and a light illuminated the glassed-in partitions of Madam Pomfrey's office. The aisle of white-sheeted beds, professional and uninviting, unnerved her. She had not spent much time in the infirmary herself, opting only to visit when Harry or Ron became a patient, and she found the sterile, bright whiteness to be distinctly off-putting.  
  
One bed, a single, simple one at the very end of the aisle, was blocked from view by white curtains that had been drawn about it. Through the soft, thin fabric of the curtains, she could just make out a shock of dark hair.  
  
Severus! She walked slowly forward, pining again for the Invisibility Cloak. At this rate, she would never cease to worry that Madam Pomfrey or the Headmaster might return quite suddenly, on an errand, or at least that pretense, and catch her here. It was entirely possible they were expecting nosy intruders and had sensed her presence in the hallway.  
  
She walked around the curtain, steeling herself for what would lay before her. No mental preparation could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes, and she choked back a convulsive sob.  
  
Severus lay there, his rate of breathing hardly noticeable; only by placing a tender, inquisitive hand to his chest did she realize that he was even alive. Bending closer, she could not hear the gentle inhaling or exhaling of his breath. His hair was matted with blood that had not yet been able to wash out, and cuts and scratches lined his face. He had never had an attractive complexion, true, as it was far too pale, but it had never been marred. His lips had been cut in multiple places, but, oddly enough, it only increased the urge she felt to kiss him, try to awaken him from his sleep.  
  
He wore the traditional hospital robe, white as chalk and twice as rough, but his skin was still perceptible through the weave of the fabric. Nasty bruises lined his entire body, and from the bottles on the bedside table, she knew that he had suffered a great deal of broken bones, most likely ribs. She was not sure she had ever seen a greater quantity of Skele-Gro doled out for the use of one patient.  
  
Her hand still lay on his chest. She moved it slowly, laying it across his brow; he was hot and feverish, no doubt his body's reaction to such a trauma. It was amazing he had not suffered to the degree that he became comatose. His right arm was bent at an awkward angle, which worried her above all else. If the bone had been broken and Skele-Gro had not fixed it by now, he had endured something even Madam Pomfrey was incapable of healing.  
  
She wanted to whisper his name, but was afraid of truly waking him; it would do no good to have him wake amidst a nightmarish recollection of what had happened and think her to be his attacker.  
  
Indistinguishable as he was covered in lacerations and scars, he was still Severus, and she finally broke down and allowed herself to reach out and take his hand in hers. It was clammy despite his elevated body temperature; she lay his palm against hers, hoping that maybe some of her own body heat would seep through her skin and permeate his. It was unfair that his hand could feel so large, so safe, and yet she was the one who was supposed to be doing the comforting. 


	13. Chapter 13

I shall repeat my disclaimer purely for a safety measure. No-I do not own them; no-I mean no infringement; no-I make no money. Leave me alone.  
  
As for the rest of you-read on! Reviews would be much appreciated, as this is a crucial point in the plot, in which I must decide whether or not room should be made available for a sequel. Perhaps a glimpse into the war effort and the involvement of our favorite Potions master?  
  
Feedback! Feedback!  
  
Inescapable  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
The air seemed to crawl on his skin when he finally awoke to the soft clicking sound of a clock hidden from his view. Gooseflesh covered his arms and his teeth chattered, so unbearable was the abnormal temperature of the room.  
  
What the hell was Poppy thinking?  
  
With a slight growl, he rose abruptly, only to find that his arms were pinned to the bed by a spider's-web of strange tubes and string like medical tools. One especially long needle punctured the skin just beneath the wrist of his right arm, and he could, only through squinting, make out barely discernible drops of liquid slipping through the tube and into his body.  
  
Cursed Muggle contraptions, he thought in an aggravated state. Had Poppy no mercy?  
  
Pushing backward with his feet and gaining some leverage against the abrasive sheets with sheathed his bed, he managed to slide up enough to gain and maintain a sitting position. It was awkward, as though he were half-sitting, half-lying prostrate, but anything was better than the helpless position which he had been subjected to before.  
  
Resisting the urge to call for Poppy, he glanced about him. Cracks of light, playing softly on the sterile white tiles of the floor, came through the Venetian blinds of the windows nearest his bed. He could determine from the intensity and brightness that it was most certainly daytime-about noon, he gauged-and there was no telling for how long he had been unconscious.  
  
A punctured clicking of heels against the tile floor jarred him from his wonderings and the drapes slung about his bed for privacy were pushed back quite suddenly. Poppy stood before him, ever the professional in her long white nurse's robes and stern expression; but her eyes literally melted into tears when she realized that he was awake and fairly alert.  
  
No sooner had the initial tears completed the journey down her skin than she was nearly screaming.  
  
"What is the matter with you?" she shrieked, tossing the fresh bedsheets aside with complete disregard and rushing forward. Severus cringed instinctively-in his physical state, even Poppy would be capable of causing him potentially dangerous harm-but all she seemed intent on doing was placing her hands on his shoulders and shoving him back into a lying position. "You are wounded beyond anything I have seen in my life and you need to lie down!"  
  
"What I need," he retorted with a hoarse, raspy voice, "is a bottle of brandy and some solitude."  
  
"Don't even joke about that," she chastised, running her finger over the display of a thermometer whose sensor was wrapped, most annoyingly, about his neck. "You are still running a fever, and you probably will be for weeks to come. Honestly, Severus"-a more gentle tone had crept into her voice, almost grandmotherly in its grudging indulgence-"how are you still alive?"  
  
"Rotten luck."  
  
She flinched as though about to strike him, but thought better of it. "I ought to hit you for that," she interjected instead. "We have worried constantly about you. The poor Headmaster-"  
  
"I don't give a damn about the Headmaster, I want out of this bloody prison!"  
  
"-has been checking on you incessantly, he's gotten no sleep in weeks, and you wake up raving about your maltreatment. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Tears had filled her eyes again, and before he could shrink, she had collapsed on her knees and taken his hand in hers.  
  
"You have to stop this. I know that Albus gave you a second chance and that you take that seriously with every breath you take, but this has gone too far. You are killing Albus. Killing him."  
  
"Poppy-"  
  
"We can't stand this any longer. Even the other teachers are terrified for your welfare, but I can't tell them what happened. This is no way to live your life, you have all the time you could want and you throw it away as though it means nothing-"  
  
"Poppy-!"  
  
"-but I'll not let you do this to yourself. You're invaluable to our cause, but how can you not see that we need you alive? Fourteen times I've had to drag you back from Death's door and if I have to go through this one more-"  
  
"POPPY!" he roared, and she reared back in sheer terror, having received a glimpse into the prowling demon of the Hogwarts underground. Losing her balance on unsteadily heeled feet, she collapsed against the wall into convulsive sobs.  
  
Summoning gentleness he knew not that he possessed, Severus spoke to her quietly.  
  
"It's over, Poppy. The Dark Lord has been informed of my treason and will accept me no longer into his Circle. I've been exiled, in a sense. There will be no more meetings or summons, no more bouts with the Cruciatus." Here he paused, considering how badly he had contorted the truth. There would be more trips through Hell now than ever before-provided Voldemort could track him down.  
  
Seeing that his arms were bared-no wonder he felt cold, he thought wryly-he lifted up into Poppy's view the terribly scarred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Poppy gasped and stretched a hand outward, beckoning him to come within her reach. He bent over painfully, feeling the stretching of the intravenous needles placing tension on his skin, and allowed her to incredulously touch his skin.  
  
"How in the name of all that is good did you get rid of it?" she murmured. Her fingers were rough and callused with work and stress, pulling and irritating the tender, seared flesh. Steeling his nerves against and outburst, he forced himself to answer.  
  
"The Dark Lord did it for me. He would no sooner have his mark of glory grace the arm of a traitor than he would a Muggle."  
  
"You are nothing to him, then." Her eyes were pleading as she struggled to her feet; Poppy was no longer young or sprightly, being Minerva's age and feeling the effects of waning life. "He will leave you alone."  
  
"Hardly. I mean more now than I ever did before. Simply not in terms of value."  
  
She nodded, as though understanding quite suddenly and fully what he meant to convey. Straightening, toughening, she strode purposefully over to the opposite side of the room and began to methodically close the blinds of each and every window that lined the far wall. Severus sighed; the collective Hogwarts faculty would accomplish nothing if they relied on such insignificant material devices to camouflage him from Voldemort's sight. And there was more at stake here than they could possibly fathom.  
  
Hermione, he thought longingly, glancing toward the door. Love had never meant anything to him, and while he was confident he was not in love with the seventh-year Gryffindor prodigy, he knew that he did, in his own way, feel for her with an intensity he could ascribe to nothing but love and protection. In the final moments of his torture, his ex-fellow Death Eaters had administered Veritaserum and laughed themselves hoarse as he reluctantly poured forth the story of the past few months.  
  
'Got yourself in a bit of a spot, haven't you, Severus?'  
  
Hermione would be where, right now? Poppy had, in the manner of the professional recluse, returned to her office and was undoubtedly attending to the various troubles that had arisen due to his prolonged absence. He had no view of the clock, but assuming it was early afternoon, she would be attending Arithmancy.  
  
'What're you gonna do, Severus? Think of anything yet?'  
  
Their voices echoed through is head with cruel vulgarity, and he shuddered, remembering the images their words had called forth into his brains. They painted the picture of a perverted, lecherous old man tripping over his own two feet with his lust for a beautiful young student. Nothing could have been further from the truth.  
  
'I daresay his brain is a bit short on blood.' Lucius Malfoy's piercing smile hit him with full force as he lay, scarcely able to see through the waterfall of blood pouring from the many gashes and dents rendered to his skull. 'It's all gone south for the winter..'  
  
"Bastard," he hissed under his breath, praying fervently that they never found Hermione. He had mentioned her name of course-and Malfoy, damn him to Hell, had recognized it. But of course Draco would have mentioned her at home; he could not possibly have kept himself from raving about the blasted Mudblood that had the schoolteachers whipped into submission and wrapped firmly around her little finger.  
  
If Malfoy Senior told Draco..  
  
* * *  
  
"In conclusion," Professor Vector finished, folding her hands atop her desk in a most scholarly manner, "I believe it is to the benefit of all of you to study extremely hard for this exam. The Ministry demands I follow their curricula this year, and I daresay it will be most difficult for the majority of you."  
  
Her eyes glanced askew to take in Hermione's distant, glazed expression. While the girl's grades had not dropped noticeably, she had been acting most strangely lately. It was unnerving, really, to have her bent over her desk, looking as though she cared nothing for the goings-on of the classroom. Completely uncharacteristic of her.  
  
"You are dismissed," she finished, and Hermione literally leapt from her seat and fled the room at the head of the class. Typically, she would lag behind to initiate a friendly conversation with the professor. Within reason, of course; Vector highly doubted genial small talk would get her anywhere with Snape.  
  
Once in the hallway, Hermione took painstakingly careful measures to avoid encountering Harry and Ron. Ron's behavior had been peculiar, and while she yearned to demand and explanation, she could not bring herself to speak with him. Harry had been most generous and supportive since her outburst in Potions class, and Severus' absence had greatly improved his mood.  
  
Lunchtime was a relief, as it allowed her the chance to slip away from the table virtually unnoticed. Stowing her excess books in the Gryffindor common room and snatching what little she would need for her afternoon classes, she traipsed back down to the Great Hall and grabbed an apple to satisfy her grumbling stomach. Before Harry and Ron had the opportunity to enter the hall and see her, wide open and vulnerable to conversation, she slipped out a side door and into the shadows of the hallway.  
  
Severus' letter was firmly ensconced in her small pocket, hidden beneath the folds of the outer cloak she wore to shield her from the cold. It was an unusually cool spring, odd in that summer was fast approaching. Graduation, in fact, was in-  
  
A week! Her eyes grew wide at the revelation and she nearly choked on the bite of apple in her mouth. In one week, she would no longer be a student at Hogwarts. She would leave the deserted moorlands for-where? London? The Glasgow Institute? No one place in particular seemed to encompass her mind; thus, she had nowhere to go.  
  
But the Ministry had offered that position to her, and yet sent no representative to visit her. In her preoccupied stupor, worrying about Severus and hardly anything else, she had given no thought to post- graduation and the fact that she was, as of yet, without a future and had received no note from the Ministry. Perhaps they would visit in the upcoming week.  
  
The wind whistled about the castle, blustery and uninviting, but she poked her head out a window nevertheless and let the cold wind whip through her hair to awaken her senses. She felt dulled, almost barren, as though when she lost Severus' friendship her every emotion joined it in exile. He had meant more to her than even Harry or Ron-which she hated to admit, granted, but one could not always dodge the truth-and to lose him meant to lose the most promising companion whom she had ever met.  
  
Determined to speak with him, she took another large bite of apple and resumed her trek to the Infirmary. Briefly she debated what her chances would be of seeing Severus were she to simply tell Madam Pomfrey she had urgent business concerning her graduation from Hogwarts and the possibility of employment in the discipline of Potions. But Madam Pomfrey would never believe her. Hermione was, after all, McGonagall's protégé and a budding Transfiguration genius. Madam Pomfrey would have her removed in an instant.  
  
And Severus, no doubt, would have her excommunicated, perhaps with an especially creative method of torture to boot. How he had managed to survive through Voldemort's wrath all these years she could not imagine, but the odds were in favor of his being in an understandably foul mood. Even she was unwelcome during his various bouts with rage and depression.  
  
But then again, when was he not angry?  
  
The Hospital Wing loomed in front of her, its entrance inscribed with the usual crooked, supposedly inspiring Latin above the doorway, which she could not translate. It reminded her disturbingly of a Muggle church, with stained-glass windows lining the walls and benches here and there for the mournful and the concerned to use as a stopping point in their long journey through the night. Creeping softly to conceal herself behind the very same statue, she tucked her apple into a corner for a mouse to utilize as dessert and waited for her chance.  
  
* * *  
  
Ron speared his string beans with unusual gusto and chomped loudly, talking to Ginny most rudely with his mouthful. She frowned at him, picking daintily at her meal as females are wont to do, and considered whether or not kicking him beneath the table would be effective at shutting him up.  
  
Harry's green eyes were set on far sights to which she was blind, and she glanced at him every so often. He appeared to be staring in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, making her mind flitter back to Hermione's absence and whether or not it was Hermione about whom Harry was thinking. Harry was the only one Hermione would consort with lately, as Ginny's own opinions were unwelcome and Ron had been incredibly nasty toward her. Ginny could hardly blame her, but yet she missed the older girl's company; there was an adult presence, an unreachable maturity to Hermione's countenance that both inspired and helped Ginny.  
  
"Harry? What's wrong?"  
  
Harry finally gave up in pushing the various pieces of food around his plate with industry and let his fork collapse against the china, rattling with irritating resonance. "I'm just worried about Hermione. Where do you suppose she is?"  
  
"Probably lying on her bed, pining away for him," Ron remarked scathingly before spearing another string bean. "No point in feeling bad for her, it's obvious she doesn't care."  
  
"You know that's not true." Ginny's voice was gravely quiet and even Ron was forced to rethink his previous statement. "She cares about you more than you'll ever know, and you've ruined it. Why have you been acting like that toward her?"  
  
"Why have you?" he retorted, and Ginny was forced to admit that her initial reaction to Hermione's secret was most inappropriate.  
  
"I apologized," she defended herself, "and Hermione accepted my apology. We're friends again."  
  
"Could've fooled me," Ron muttered. This time, Ginny did kick him beneath the table, but there was no obliging yelp from which to derive satisfaction. He merely kicked her back-only half-heartedly, which infuriated her-and returned to his lunch.  
  
"Snape's absence had really gotten to her," Harry sighed aloud, staring at his lap with his eyes narrowed in concentration, almost Freudian in his careful analysis of Hermione's behavior. "You don't suppose she'll do anything rash, do you?"  
  
"Like hurl herself from the Astronomy Tower because she can't stand the thought of life without him?" Ron gave a derisive snort. "I doubt it. That would mean sacrificing perfect grades and graduation as class valedictorian. Hermione's got too much pride for that."  
  
"That was undeserved," Harry exclaimed, glowering at Ron. Ron merely shrugged and bit into a large biscuit.  
  
"She'll get over it."  
  
Ginny was struck with a cognitive flash then, staring at Ron, who appeared far too confident and unaffected by the behavior of the girl whom he professed to love more than life itself. There was no accounting for his unshakable and resolute sureness unless he knew firsthand that Hermione would eventually overcome her agony on Snape's behalf.  
  
"How can you be so sure?" she demanded, watching the gleam that entered her brother's eyes.  
  
"I made sure of it."  
  
Harry's head snapped up in a flash, and Ginny shrank back, seeing him stare at Ron in with an intensity that seemed inhuman. "How did you 'make sure' of it?" he asked with deliberate slowness. "What'd you do, Ron? What'd you say to her?"  
  
"Me? I said nothing," Ron assured him with a wicked grin. "There was no need for ME to say anything. It wasn't from my lips that she needed to hear those words."  
  
"You didn't." Ginny blanched, fearing the worst. "You told someone? You told Dumbledore?"  
  
"Of course not," Ron scoffed, tossing aside the last remains of his biscuit and wiping his hands on his napkin with apparent pleasure. "If I told someone, it'd be around the school on the rumor track in a second. There's no point in embarrassing her; that would only make the situation worse."  
  
"You're damn right it would," Harry fired back, "and it sounds to me like you did just that. What did you do?"  
  
Ron looked suspiciously around him before leaning forward to whisper to them across the table. His voice trembled slightly with repressed excitement and for a moment, Ginny feared he would burst out screaming.  
  
"I sent her a little love note. Thought she might appreciate a tasteful dismissal."  
  
Ginny resisted the urge to gouge her brother's eyes out with a fork, and Harry was clenching his fists in his lap. She watched his hands consolidate themselves into white-knuckled, tension-riddled balls of pure physical strength, and wished wholly that he had the resignation and wild abandon to unleash his anger on her brother.  
  
"From Snape?" She already knew the answer, but had to be absolutely positive of the circumstances surrounding the situation before she could take action. If Ron had put anything especially nasty or demeaning into the note, Hermione was liable to take it to heart in a most hazardous manner. She always had taken people's words too literally, fearing the ultimate manifestation of ignorance and stupidity in herself. The handling of constructive criticism had never been one of her strong points.  
  
"Of course. Who else?"  
  
Harry rose from the table. Thankfully, as they sat at the far end closest to the doors that exited the Great Hall, it was fairly easy for him to surreptitiously grab Ron's robes and drag him from the room. Ron offered no protest, seemingly aware of his fate and almost enjoying the attention his grave mistake was rewarding him.  
  
Once outside the Hall, Harry slammed Ron into a nearby wall with all the force he could muster. Ron instinctively bent his heart forward to shield his skull, but there was a loud crack and Ginny was positive that spine had been damaged, even if not broken.  
  
Ron groaned in pain, but she pulled her fingers back and would not let herself reach out to offer him comfort. Whether or not his transgression warranted a physical outlet, he deserved what pain they could deal him for what he had done to Hermione. Hermione, unfortunately, would most likely be incapable of exacting her own revenge; they would be forced to do it for her.  
  
Gladly.  
  
"What'd you put in the note?" Harry snarled. He was a good three inches shorter than Ron, who had topped out at six feet and was still growing. Ginny, shorter than the both of them, had to stand nearly on her tiptoes to glimpse the emotions that festered in their eyes. Ron's held maniacal glee and Harry's roiling anger.  
  
"Just the truth. That she's a miserable little-"  
  
"Don't say it," Harry rasped breathily. "Don't you dare. Don't ever call her that in my presence."  
  
"A bit overprotective, aren't we?"  
  
Ginny's palm wrenched his face sideways, and Ron gasped at the injustice of his little sister's blow. She could discern from the look he shot her that while he had not been especially hurt, she would pay dearly for it later. She could not have cared less, seeing the nobility with which he conducted himself throughout Harry's interrogation.  
  
"May I finish?" Ron asked with mock politeness.  
  
"Please," Harry growled.  
  
"I just told her-in appropriate terms, of course; Snape always was quite the gentleman-that she no longer had a place in his heart."  
  
Harry waited, tense.  
  
"Or his bed, for that matter."  
  
Ron recovered from Harry's next blow with a bloody nose, and Ginny herself stepped back. Harry seemed the very personification of feral rage, emanating ire in tangible waves. He reminded her of a father protecting his daughter's honor, but based upon the stance of his body, he saw no wrong in doing so physically, whereas most fathers would frown upon harming a younger male.  
  
Ron leaned against the wall, gangly legs splayed awkwardly, nursing his bloody nose.  
  
"You know Hermione would never do that." Harry was breathing deeply, the sharp rise and fall of his chest visible to Ginny, who had never given him much credit concerning physical muscularity and upper body strength. Harry was rolling up the sleeves of his robes as though intent upon delivering yet another blow to his supposed best friend.  
  
A strange, fluxuating film of emotions passed across Ron's face as he lay there, observing Harry, and he opened his mouth as though to say something; but he shut it again in reconsideration. When he opened it a second time, Ginny was paralyzed by the words that passed his lips.  
  
"You're just jealous because she wouldn't do it for you."  
  
Harry's entire body seemed to tense to a bursting point with unrepressed fury before he rotated on his heel and stalked from the hallway. She watched his retreating form as he took the steps leading to Gryffindor Tower three at a time, nearly at a run, and disappeared from her view.  
  
Ron dragged himself to his feet and observed his younger sister as she turned slowly to face him. She ran a hand nervously through her flame-red hair and it came to rest across her breast, symbolically close to her heart, for a few seconds before she allowed it to fall to her side and the words poured forth.  
  
"What did you mean by that? That last thing you said to him-about him being jealous." Her eyes were nakedly revealing and it tugged at his heart to have to reveal to her what he had known for years was coming.  
  
"Just what I said. He's jealous of Snape."  
  
Ginny whimpered, barely audibly, and when he saw the reflection of his own feelings in hers he sneered at her. "Face it, Gin. We're out of the equation. He loves her, and when all's said and done, she'll probably be back with Snape. We're nothing."  
  
Ginny turned again as though hoping Harry would reappear to sweep her into his arms, twirl her and kiss her, and assure her that Ron's words were merely the rantings of a soul denied love. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course; the doors of the Great Hall opened as the influx of students crowded the hallway and she and Ron were forced brutally against the walls by the flow of traffic.  
  
Ron pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face, making a face of disgust when it came away soaked with bright red blood. "I hope he's fucking maimed," he spat, throwing the stained cloth beneath his feet and kicking it into the crowd. "I hope the Death Eaters came after him and blew his brains out with the Unforgivables."  
  
"You don't really mean that." Ginny wanted suddenly, more than anything in the world, for Severus Snape to make an appearance-healthy, virile, unharmed. He and Hermione would travel to the far reaches of the universe, and Harry.  
  
Would be miserable without Hermione. She placed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob. Without Hermione, Harry would never be happy; she, Ginny, would only be second best. Perhaps she had not even attained that rank in the workings of his heart.  
  
"Come on, Gin." Ron nodded toward the main doors of the castle and the beautiful but windy day that lay beyond. "Let's go for a walk. Clear our heads. It'll all work out." His jaw was clenched tightly, his teeth grinding, but he found himself feeling ultimately responsible for Ginny's pain.  
  
She refused to move, and when he was swept away with the crowd, remained in her position, erect and unreactive.  
  
* * *  
  
Madam Pomfrey exited the Infirmary at a surprisingly quick pace and disappeared down the hallway before Hermione had even managed to lodge her fingers, with excruciating effort, between the door and the doorframe. She pulled the door open, stepped beyond the doorjamb, and let it slam shut, echoing through the hall. Cringing, she realized she had given no thought to the fact that someone might possibly be in the Infirmary, visiting the invalid professor.  
  
But upon inspection, it was empty, and the only occupant appeared to be the body lying on the bed at the end of the hall. She chuckled when she realized that a footstool had been added to the edge of the bed to accommodate Severus' long frame. Well above six feet, he had probably been forced for many years to purchase clothes, mattresses, and other accessories meant for someone of his lofty height.  
  
She went weak in the knees when she ducked into the curtains and found him sitting upright in bed, regarding her with eyes of liquid obsidian. He did not smile; his face remained stoically emotionless, but one hand reached forward, into which she placed her own. His fingers curled about hers, applying warm, gentle pressure, and she could feel the walls of her emotional fortress beginning to fail.  
  
Tears brimming her eyes, she allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. Intravenous needles had left their scars on his forearms, and she choked on tears when she saw the charred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Noticing her shock, he allowed his arm to be touched exploringly, and she looked up at him with wondrous eyes.  
  
"The Dark Lord removed it," he explained quietly, his voice inhumanly deep with the hoarseness of malady. "He could not stand the thought of his magnanimous symbol upon the arm of a traitor."  
  
"Only to one cause," she whispered in halting words, and he traced a gentle finger across her cheek.  
  
"What happened in class?" His hands were holding her face upright, forcing her to meet his eyes, an amazingly difficult task. "I never meant for this to hurt you."  
  
"This doesn't. Your letter did."  
  
Genuine confusion covered his face. "What letter?" Her face grew suddenly hot and flushed. What did he mean, 'what letter?'  
  
"This," she expostulated with sudden force, nearly ripping her pocket with the effort of extricating the letter and thrusting it into his hands. "This. This letter."  
  
His eyes scanned the page and grew fraught with concern. She saw him flinch when he reached the horrible portion regarding their supposed sexual encounters. When he finished, he deliberately folded the letter into a perfect white square and handed it to her wordlessly.  
  
She pocketed it, watching the grim lines of his face. "I never wrote that letter, Hermione."  
  
"Oh, really?" Her attempt at concealing tears with outward cynicism was failing miserably, based upon the tremors threatening to wrack her body. "And I suppose you can explain why it's your handwriting."  
  
His tone grew forceful. " 'Scriptus imitaeus.' Use your head, girl." He sat up straighter to better regard her. "I would never write such a vulgar letter. You underestimate me."  
  
"Not at all. It's blunt and truthful in a distinctly male way."  
  
He chuckled, the rich tones of his voice seeing to fill the room. "A low and unworthy blow," he defended weakly, shaking his head. "But well- deserved, admittedly."  
  
"Severus."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Who wrote this letter?"  
  
This time, he went as far as to roll his eyes. "I reappear from a trip through Hell and you expect me to play Sherlock Holmes?"  
  
"I didn't know you read Sherlock Holmes."  
  
He sighed heavily, bending forward to place his head in his hands and breathe deeply. "I don't have the patience for this right now, Hermione. Perhaps you should return later. I think there is something we need to discuss."  
  
She nodded knowingly, watching as he straightened again to take her hand and give it one final squeeze. "Do not doubt my affection," he murmured, "only its meaning." 


End file.
